Before he went to New York, he wrote three pamphlets which were marvels of circumlocution, as far as reform was concerned, and masterpieces of political writing, as far as his own interests were concerned. He had borrowed freely, and without credit, from the speeches of every orator from Everett to Choate, and when he delivered the manuscripts to Mirabelle, and went off on his solitary junket, he was convinced that he had helped his own personal cause, and satisfied the League, without risking the smallest part of his reputation.
On his return, he stopped first at the Citizens Club, and when he came into the great living-room 249 he was aware that several members looked up at him and smiled. Over in a corner, Henry Devereux and Judge Barklay had been conversing in undertones; but they, too, had glanced up, and their smiles were among the broadest.
Mr. Mix had an uncomfortable intuition that something had blown. Could he have been spotted, in New York, by any one from home?
“What’s the joke?” he inquired of the nearest member.
“Got a new name for you––Pitchfork Mix.” Mr. Mix spread a thin smile over his lips. “Supposed to be funny, is it?”
“Some folks think so.”
“Where’d it originate? Let me in on the joke.”
“Where would it originate? You’re some strenuous author––aren’t you? Didn’t know you had that much acid in your system.”
“Author? Author?”
From the table at his side, the man picked up three pamphlets. One was entitled The Model Statute, the second was Local Problems, and the third was Reform and Regeneration. To 250 each of the three, Mr. Mix’s name was signed. He took them up, and scrutinized them closely.