The third newspaper office was the least easy for the handy man's tactics. The editor was an independent of the fiery order. Bat avoided the editor and tackled a young reporter at the noon hour.
"What do you say to a spin in the 40 h. p. to-night?" he asked.
"What's on?"
The youth was reading an ink-smudged galley proof.
Bat sat down on the desk where he could read over the other's shoulder. The proof reeked of "gore" and "shambles" and "heavily armed masked men" and rifle shots thick as hail stones with a sheriff careening over the Mesas at break neck speed slathered with zeal for law.
"What reforms are you jollying along now?" asked Bat.
"We'll jolly you fellows when this comes out."
"I've always said if I were his Satanic Majesty and wished to defeat the goody-goodies, I wouldn't bother fighting 'em! I'd take an afternoon nap and let them buck themselves by their lies and bickerings."
The youth ran his eye down the galley proof.
"Who filled you up with this dope?" Brydges lowered his voice to an altogether amused and very confidential key.