"Yes, I do, but you needn't worry," said Mrs. Harding. "Mickey knows that himself. Didn't you hear him say soon as he read it, that he hadn't the education yet? He's taken care of himself too long to spoil his life now, and he will see it; but I marvel at Chaffner. He ought to have known better. And among us, I wonder at Mickey. Where did he get it from?"
"Easy!" said Peter. "From a God-fearing, intelligent mother, and an irresponsible Irish father, from inborn, ingrained sense of right, and a hand-to-hand scuffle with life in Multiopolis gutters. Mickey is all right, and thank God, he's ours If he does show signs of wanting to go to the Herald office, discourage him all you can, Ma; it wouldn't be good for him—yet."
"No it wouldn't; but it would be because he needs solid study and school routine to settle him, and make him great instead of a clown, as that would at his age. But if you think there is anything in the Herald office that could hurt Mickey, you got another think coming. It wouldn't hurt Mickey; but it would be mighty good for the rest of them. The Herald has more honour and conscience than most; some of the papers are just disgraceful in what they publish, and then take back next day; while folks are forced to endure it. Sit up and eat your dinners now. I want to get on with my work."
"Mickey, what happened?" begged Peaches as Mickey came in sight, carrying the papers.
He was trembling and tensely excited as her sharp eyes could see. They rested probingly a second on him, then on the paper. Her lips tightened while her eyes darkened. She stretched out her hand.
"Mickey, let me see!" she commanded.
Mickey knelt beside her, spreading out the sheet. Then he took her hand, setting a finger on the first letter of his name and slowly moved along as she repeated the letters she knew best of all, then softly pronounced the name. She knew the Herald too. She sat so straight Mickey was afraid she would strain her back, lifting her head "like a queen," if a queen lifts her head just as high as her neck can possibly stretch, and smiled a cold little smile of supreme self-satisfaction.
"Now Mickey, go on and read what you wrote about me," her Highness commanded.
The collapse of Mickey was sudden and complete. He stared at Peaches, at the paper, opened his lips, thought a lie and discarded it, shut his lips to pen the lie in for sure, and humbly and contritely waited, a silent candidate for mercy. Peaches had none. To her this was the logical outcome of what she had been led to expect. There was the paper. The paper was the Herald. There was the front page. There was Mickey's name. She had no conception of Mickey writing a line which did not concern her; also he had expressly stated that all of them and the whole book were to be about her. She indicated the paper and his name, while the condescension of her waiting began to be touched with impatience.
"Mickey, why don't you go on and read what it says about me?" she demanded.