"Two musty ales," Warrington ordered. "Well, Ben?"
Ben took a deep swallow of ale. He was the best all-round reporter in the city; he knew more people than Osborne knew. Murders, strikes, fires, they were all the same to Ben. He knew where to start and where to end. The city editor never sent Ben out on a hunt for scandal; he knew better than to do that. Nine times out of ten, the other papers got the scandal and Ben's behavior became one. The labor unions were Ben's great stand-by. On dull days he could always get a story from the unions. He attended their meetings religiously. They trusted him implicitly, for Ben never broke his word to any one but his landlady. He was short and wiry, with a head so large as to be almost a deformity. On top of this head was a shock of brick-colored hair that resembled a street-cleaner's broom. And Ben's heart was as big as his head. His generosity was always getting him into financial trouble.
"Dick, you're a friend of Bennington's. You can quietly tip him that his men will go out Monday morning. There's only one thing that will avert a strike, and that's the discharge of the Englishman."
"Bennington will never discharge him."
"So I understand. He'll have a long strike on his hands."
"Do you know the inside?"
"Enough to say that the men will go out. They're a lot of sheep. They've an idea they've been wronged. But you can't reason with them."
"Ben, you go up to the shops yourself and tell Bennington what you know."
"I don't know him. How'll he take it?"
"Tell him I sent you."