"If any of the newspaper boys come snoopin' around, you never saw me, either. Much obliged, Lieutenant."
"You're welcome, Mr. Lightener. Glad I kin accommodate you."
Lightener pushed Bonbright into his limousine. "You don't want to go home, I guess. We'll go to my house. Mother'll see you get breakfast. … Then we'll have a talk…. Here's a paper boy; let's see what's doing."
It was the morning penny paper that Lightener bought, the paper with leanings toward the proletariat, the veiled champion of labor. He bought it daily.
"Huh!" he grunted, as he scanned the first page. "They kind of allude to you."
Bonbright looked. He saw a two-column head:
YOUNG MILLIONAIRE URGES ON POLICE
The next pyramid contained his name; the story related how he had rushed frantically to the police after they had barbarously charged a harmless gathering of workingmen, trampling and maiming half a dozen, and had demanded that they charge again. It was a long story, with infinite detail, crucifying him with cheap ink; making him appear a ruthless, heartless monster, lusting for the spilled blood of the innocent.
Bonbright looked up to meet Lightener's eyes.
"It—it isn't fair," he said, chokingly.