"Humph. I'm likely to, aren't I?" jeered Simon.
"No, you aren't, because, to use your own expression, you're 'a blasted fool,'" conceded Mr. Krech cheerfully. "Anyway, if you happen to get bumped off, don't come around haunting me on the score that I didn't warn you!" He smiled benignly. "Ta-ta!"
The tanner choked back an oath. For some time after the loud groaning of the stairs beneath his visitor's tread had died away, he sat at his desk and scratched his chin gently as he meditated. The striking of the clock in the outer office recalled him to more present matters. It was understood that if he did not return home by a certain hour in the middle of the day he would lunch downtown, and the hour was now past. On these occasions he usually walked to the Hambleton Hotel, the town's one hostelry, where he could regale himself on a couple of heavy sandwiches and a cup of doubtful coffee.
Thither he now betook himself, frowning on the way as he noted some condemnatory expressions on the faces of those he passed on the street. He knew that public opinion was antagonistic to him in the matter of the strike and his treatment of Maxon—the Hambleton News had run a nasty paragraph about the last—and the censure irritated, if it did not move him.
He had no sooner entered the dingy lobby of the hotel than his eye rested on his son, Copley, seated at a rickety writing table and industriously scribbling on a pad of cheap paper. Varr strode across to his side and addressed him curtly.
"What are you doing here?"
"Living here," returned the young man, glancing up but making no move to rise. He met his father's angry glare coolly. "More convenient to my job."
"Your job!" echoed Simon derisively. "What mental incompetent has employed you?"
"Barlow, the editor of the News. I'm a reporter now."
"Humph. Why?"