Curious conclusions might have been drawn from the fact that, though he hung out with parlor anarchists of the Outlaw type and was reputed to be a close friend of real anarchists like Emma Goldman, he was an all-important member of the staff of the sham-liberal Evening Chronicle.
But no one bothered to draw these conclusions.
In truth, few people cared to think long or deeply about Hutchins Burley. A great hulk of a man, with a pitted face and shifty eyes, he was a dreadful and repellant figure, yet one that chained the attention. Some said offhand that he knew more about Charles Edward Strong, the editor and owner of the Evening Chronicle, than was good for either of them. Others believed that his influence had been won by the sensational hits he had made in "covering" the Lawrence strike and other big labor outbreaks.
One thing was certain. Newspaper Row hated and yet feared him; the Kips Bay model tenementers eyed him askance and yet elected him to high office in the Outlaw Club. A few shrewd observers troubled the placid waters in both camps by enquiring from time to time: "Can Hutchins Burley serve both Park Row and the Radicals?"
Wine was not one of Burley's weak points: he could stand any quantity of it. But women touched his Achilles' heel. On this point he was like Falstaff, "corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire."
Hence his explosion at Claude's news. The picture of Cornelia gallivanting off with Robert made his great frame shake with rage.
"What does she mean by going off with that puppy?" he snarled, ejecting the words from the left side of his mouth. "Don't she know better than to break an engagement without so much as a by-your-leave?"
Mazie tried to coax him into a good humor. But the sweeter her advances, the blacker grew his passion.
"Oh, get over it, Hutch," said Claude at last. "After all, if you make an appointment for seven, you can't expect Cornelia to wait until eight."
"She'd have waited but for that thundering young cad," shouted Burley.