Bobby heaved a sigh of relief.
“I always had the impression that a ‘beat’ meant the death, cortège and cremation of the newspaper that fell behind in the race,” he smiled. “Boys, I’m afraid you’ll have to stand it for a while. Do the best you can and get beaten as little as possible. By the way, Jolter, I want to see you a minute,” and the mournful delegation of three, no whit less mournful because they had been assured that they would not be held accountable for being scooped, filed out.
“What’s the connection,” demanded Bobby, the minute they were alone, “between the police department and Sam Stone?”
“Money!” replied Jolter. “Chief of Police Cooley is in reality chief collector. The police graft is one of the richest Stone has. The rake-off from saloons that are supposed to close at one and from crooked gambling joints and illegal resorts of various kinds, amounts, I suppose, to not less than ten to fifteen thousand dollars a week. Of course, the patrolmen get some, but the bulk of it goes to Cooley, who was appointed by Stone, and the biggest slice of all goes to the Boss.”
“Go after Cooley,” said Bobby. Then suddenly he struck his fist upon the desk. “Great Heavens, man!” he exclaimed. “At the end of every avenue and street and alley that I turn down with the Bulletin I find an open sewer.”
“The town is pretty well supplied,” admitted Jolter. “How do you feel now about your policy?”
“Pretty well staggered,” confessed Bobby; “but we’re going through with the thing just the same.”
“It’s a man’s-size job,” declared Jolter; “but if you get away with it the Bulletin will be the best-paying piece of newspaper property west of New York.”
“Not the way the advertising’s going,” said Bobby, shaking his head and consulting a list on his desk. “Where has Stone a hold on the dry-goods firm of Rolands and Crawford?”
“They built out circular show-windows, all around their big block, and these extend illegally upon two feet of the sidewalk.”