Editor Forsyth lighted a cigar and tilted his swing chair to what the night force called the disputatious angle.
“‘Must’ is a stout word in a newspaper office,” he objected. “Who is this William Langford? and why should he play and not pay?”
Brant uncoupled the two queries and spoke only to the latter.
“There are plenty of reasons. For one, he is only a boy; for another, he is a friend of mine.”
The editor chuckled. “You have no business to be making maps in the colonel’s office,” he retorted. “You ought to syndicate yourself to the refrigerator people; they’d save money on their ice bills.”
“Never mind about that. Will you do what I want you to?”
“Oh, sure.” Forsyth took down the copy hook, found the report of the raid, and blue-pencilled the name of William Langford. “It’s rank treason—muzzling the press, you know—but anything to oblige a friend. What else can I do for you?”
“Much; this is only the beginning. Put on your hat and coat and go with me to the other morning papers. I don’t know any of the newspaper men; but they will do it for you.”
The chair of the night editor righted itself with a crash.
“By Jove! Say, Brant, you’ve got the cold nerve of your namesake over in the Silverette district; I’ll be hanged if you haven’t. Oh, I’ll go,” he went on. “I suppose the other fellows will say there is a woman in the case, and devil me accordingly, but that won’t matter. Come on, and let’s have it over with.”