He finished the next sheet of copy. Then, when he was certain he had not been jested with, he rose from the torturing machine, put on his coat, and told Sam Pickering he had an engagement. Sam hoped it wouldn't keep him from work that afternoon.
Wilbur said "Possibly not," though he knew he would now loathe the linotype forever.
"By the way"—he managed it jauntily, as Sam bent again over his pad of yellow copy paper—"I see Lyme Teaford's name is going to be in print this week."
Sam paused in his labour and chuckled.
"Yes, the old hard-shell is landed. That blonde hasn't been bringing him his three meals a day all this time for nothing."
"She must have married him for his money," Wilbur heard himself saying in cold, cynical tones. The illumining thought had just come. That explained it.
"Sure," agreed Sam. "Why wouldn't she?"
Late that afternoon, in the humble gymnasium at the rear of Pegleg McCarron's, Spike Brennon emerged from a rally in which Wilbur Cowan had displayed unaccustomed spirit. Spike tenderly caressed his nose with a glove and tried to look down upon it. The swelling already showed to his oblique gaze.
"Say, kid," he demanded, irritably, "what's the big idea? Is this murder or jest a friendly bout? You better behave or I'll stop pullin' my punches."