“I'll see!” promised McWayne, non-committally; but he was so perturbed that he could not help showing it.
Doyle, who had made a pretense of resuming his letter-writing, noticed it, and felt uncomfortable.
“And—say, McWayne,” pursued the reporter, “could you let a fellow have a photograph or two? You know we've got some, but we'd prefer to publish those you think the family consider the best. Some people are queer that way.”
McWayne shook his head and went away, convinced of the worst. He returned and beckoned to the reporter, who thereupon said, sharply, to Doyle:
“Open the door—you! Quick!” And Doyle, who saw McWayne beckoning, had to do it.
Four hundred and seventeen reporters were avenged!
Doyle was so angry that he was full of aches. He was tempted to throw up his job. Then he hoped E. H. Merriwether, who was a very great man, would order him to throw the insolent dog out of the office. Doyle would earn a bonus.
E. H. Merriwether, autocrat of fifteen thousand miles of railroad, fearless fighter, iron-nerved stock gambler, but, alas! also a father, was seated at his desk. He turned to the reporter the inscrutable poker-face of his class:
“You wished to see me?”
“Yes, sir,” said the reporter, and waited; two could play at that game. The great financier was compelled to ask: