“What is it?” Meredith said quickly.
“Give me the pad, please.”
“What is it, boy?”
The other's teeth snapped together.
“What is it?” he cried. “What is it? It's treachery, and the worst I ever knew. Not a word of the accusation I demanded—lying praises instead! Read that editorial—there, there!” He struck the page with the back of his hand, and threw the paper to Meredith. “Read that miserable lie! 'One who has won the love and respect of every person in the district!'—'One who has suffered for his championship of righteousness!' Righteousness! Save the mark!”
“What does it mean?”
“Mean! It means McCune—Rod McCune, 'who has lived under a threat for years'—my threat! I swore I would print him out of Indiana if he ever raised his head again, and he knew I could. 'Almost overborne in the fulfilment of that threat!' Almost! It's a black scheme, and I see it now. This man came to Plattville and went on the 'Herald' for nothing in the world but this. It's McCune's hand all along. He daren't name him even now, the coward! The trick lies between McCune and young Fisbee—the old man is innocent. Give me the pad. Not almost overborne. There are three good days to work in, and, by the gods of Perdition, if Rod McCune sees Congress it will be in his next incarnation!”
He rapidly scribbled a few lines on the pad, and threw the sheets to Meredith. “Get those telegrams to the Western Union office in a rush, please. Read them first.”
With a very red face Tom read them. One was addressed to H. Fisbee:
“You are relieved from the cares of editorship. You will turn over the management of the 'Herald' to Warren Smith. You will give him the McCune papers. If you do not, or if you destroy them, you cannot hide where I shall not find you.