Of late he had been displaying a hankering for negro politics. A few weeks before he had created a sensation by applying to the clerk of the court for a license to marry his mulatto housekeeper. It was common report that this woman was the mother of a beautiful octoroon daughter with hair exactly the color of old Peeler's. Few people had seen her. She had been away at school since her tenth year.
The young editor suddenly wheeled in his chair and spoke with quick emphasis:
"Mr. Peeler, I believe?"
The visitor's face lighted with a maudlin attempt at politeness:
"Yes, sir; yes, sir!—and I'm shore glad to meet you, Major Norton!"
He came forward briskly, extending his fat mottled hand.
Norton quietly ignored the offer by placing a chair beside his desk:
"Have a seat, Mr. Peeler."
The heavy figure flopped into the chair:
"I want to ask your advice, major, about a little secret matter"—he glanced toward the door leading into the reporters' room.