"You do not like San Marco?" he ventured.
Mr. Wall snorted angrily.
"Like it? Does a beheaded man like the ax? In a long and golden professional career, I've never struck anything like this town before for hard luck. I'm not in it twenty-four hours when I'm left alone, my hands tied, with stuff enough to make your eyes pop out of your head. That's pleasant! Then, after spending two months and a lot of money trailing Lord Harrowby for the family jools, I finally cop them. I give the crew of my borrowed boat orders to steam far, far away, and run to my cabin to gloat. Do I gloat? Ask me. I do not gloat. I find the famous Chain Lightning's Collar is a very superior collection of glass, worth about twenty-three cents. I send back the glass, and stick around, hoping for better days. And the best I get is a call from the owner of my yacht, with orders to vacate at once. When I first came here I swore I'd visit that jewelry store again—alone. But—there's a jinx after me in this town. What's the use? I'm going to get out."
"But before you go," smiled Manuel, "one stroke of luck you shall have."
"Maybe. I leave that to you. This kind of thing"—he motioned toward the damp paper—"is not in my line." He bent over a picture on the front page. "That cut came out pretty well, didn't it? Lucky we got the photograph before big brother George arrived."
"I have always found San Marco lucky," replied Gonzale. "Always—with one trifling exception." He drummed reminiscently on his desk.
"I say—who's this?" Mr. Wall pointed to a line just beneath the name of the paper. "Robert O'Neill, Editor and Proprietor," he read.
Manuel Gonzale gurgled softly somewhere within, which was his cunning, non-committal way of indicating mirth.
"Ah—my very virtuous managing editor," he said. "One of those dogs who dealt so vilely with me—I have told you of that. Manuel Gonzale does not forget." He leaned closer. "This morning at two, after O'Neill and Howe had sent to-day's paper to press as usual, Luypas, my circulation manager, and I arrived. My virtuous editors had departed to their rest. Luypas and I stopped the presses, we substituted a new first-page form. O'Neill and Howe—they will not know. Always they sleep until noon. In this balmy climate, it is easy to lie abed."
Again Manuel Gonzale gurgled.