This blazed at him from the other newspaper.
“What!” the boss exploded. “The damned traitor! Sent ’em a statement! Hell’s bells!”
“Statement nothing!” Barney ejaculated. “These papers are full of prunes, both of ’em! Why, they say he made this speech as the dinner feature of the occasion, the Sentinel calls it.”
For several minutes, under the glare of the dome light in Quaid’s limousine, the four men read, pop-eyed with amazement, the silence broken only by occasional crackling profanity. There was no doubt but that both papers had seemingly gone mad.
According to their accounts, Hammond had actually completed a ringing speech of some twenty minutes’ duration at the dinner, and at its conclusion had received tumultuous applause. He had scathingly picked Forsythe’s empty mouthings to pieces, keenly analyzed the State power proposition, declaring it must be put in the hands of experts to determine the right policy as between State and local control. He was personally engaged in such a study now, he declared, and the State could have his services as Governor to direct such a study and carry out its results.
There was added a brief account of Hammond’s career as a successful engineer who had served the State for one term as engineer ten years before.
Quaid finished reading and dashed the paper to the floor in a purple rage.
“Sentinel office, George,” he ordered the chauffeur.
The Sentinel was controlled by Quaid. Boon, its managing editor, and handy man to the boss, was just about to go home when the enraged and mystified quartet stormed in.
“What the hell?” Quaid demanded, slapping the paper down on the desk and pointing one pudgy finger at the offensive and mystic headline. “Are you fellows crazy or drunk?”