“Well,” said Mr. Early, and he leaned forward nervously to poke the fire that needed no poking.
“Well! In spite of me, Billy’s getting restless. He’s getting worse than restless, and I’m afraid to think how he may break out. You know how he loses his sense once in a while. Have you noticed how the Star has been running him of late?” Mr. Murdock slowly gathered force in stating his grievances.
“Yes, I’ve noticed it,” said Mr. Early.
“The Star is the only paper I haven’t got a strangle hold of—at least so I thought. But some of the other dailies are butting in. Say they’re afraid not to. Of course, an occasional black eye is all in the day’s work. It rather helps things along. Billy expects it, and he isn’t thin-skinned. It doesn’t make much difference as long as our own organs print what they’re told. But, say, this thing is going beyond a joke. Billy has been really cut up over the way this coroner business is getting home to the public. He says if there is going to be squirming, he’ll look out that there are other people squirming besides himself. I suppose that’s meant as a threat for me. You know there are things—even affairs that you are interested in, Sebastian—that are all on the square, you know, and perfectly right, but they take too much explaining for the public ever to understand them.”
“I know,” said Mr. Early, still poking the fire.
“And do you know who is back of the whole rumpus?”
“Who?” demanded Mr. Early sharply, looking up.
“Primarily this infernal next-door neighbor of yours.”
“Percival?”
“Percival. He’s too much of a kid to put himself forward, but he’s really the whole thing. He’s been sneaking around town for months, picking up information. He has a confounded cheerful way of making friends that has cut him out for the job of politics, if he would just put himself on the right side. Of course he has no more idea of practical politics than—” Mr. Murdock looked around for an object of comparison and concluded lamely, “than that girl on your magazine cover. And what do you think is the latest?”