When she was gone von Essen turned apprehensive eyes upon his chauffeur. Philip shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t need to worry about her,” he said. “That sort of thing means a heap to a woman.... She’s safe.”
CHAPTER XVI
Potter Waite appeared in the morning papers in a new character, and in his new character occupied even more space and bigger headlines than he had ever conquered in the old. Capable reporters had found a story to their liking, and, what was more, a story with extraordinary news value and interest to the public. It was not merely a local story, but one of a sort which some newspaper men call “A. P. stuff.” It is not the duty of a reporter to assist in hiding anybody’s light under a bushel, to minimize heroism or rascality. Quite the contrary. He polishes his hero’s armor; he darkens the shadows about his miscreant.
So Potter was held up to public view as a hero of sorts, and it is characteristic of the public that there were few to run back through the index of memory and drag to light those closed pages of reckless deviltry, of gaudy misbehavior. Potter had won for himself a new character.
Doubtless there were some devout enthusiasts who held him a convert; a captive dragged up the sawdust trail at Billy Sunday’s chariot wheel, for Billy had, since early September, been belaboring the devil and torturing the English language in his huge tabernacle on Grindley Field—once the athletic domain of the parent Detroit Athletic Club. Billy had ranted to the glory of God and the discomfiture of evil, and gone his way, leaving behind him a state which, on its November election-day, voted the abolition of traffic in intoxicants. Perhaps Billy claimed the credit for both Potter’s renovated character and the coming drought. There is some justice in his claim to a fair share in the latter.
Major Craig and his two companions read the papers in the spacious reading-room of the Athletic Club where Potter had put them up, reading with a grain of salt at hand, for military men suspect the utterances of the press, but not underestimating the main fact—that Potter was a fighting-man and had done eagerly what battle was offered him.
“If Waite’s engine has as good stuff in it as he has in himself,” the major said to Captain Ball, “our trip will be worth while.”
“He seemed a capable chap,” said Ball, who had met Potter in Washington, “but offish.”
“Something’s eating the boy,” said the major—and then arose with extended hand as Potter entered.