"MR. GRAVES'S OPPONENT HERE"
"That virtuous spellbinder of county fairs, the "Hon." C. R. Shelby, reached the city to-day arm in arm with the notorious Jake Krantz. The character of this aspirant for congressional preferment in the so-called Demijohn District may be readily judged by the company he keeps."
Shelby needed no plainer signpost than the style to warn him that he had fallen foul of the caustic journal which had flayed his plagiarism. He stole a glance toward the desk, wondering whether the Boss had read these things. Then he ran hastily through the scurrilous perversion of his words. Could nothing curb this tyranny?
Yet a greater indignity was in store. His cup brimmed at the discovery that in the cherub also he had cherished a viper. His mortification was too keen for the perusal of more than an occasional phrase: "Art's New Patron"—"The Champion of Canals couches a lance against the tariff on art"—"his naïve canons of criticism"—"judges a picture by its area of canvas—the bigger the better."
"Scoundrels!" he suddenly rapped out, crumpling the papers in his disgust.
"I beg your pardon?" said the Boss, gently, peering over the chrysanthemums.
"I beg yours. These—these reporters have misrepresented me."
"Dear me! Do you mind that? You shouldn't. One has to be Jekyll or Hyde. There's no happy medium. But luckily the public takes care of that. Trust the public to guess, Mr. Shelby, that you're neither an art critic nor an ass. And don't be rough on the reporters," he added, getting up. "They work hard for a living, poor boys. Caricature is the press's peculiar tribute to the significant."
Outside the door of the private office Shelby's face suddenly froze. Several newspaper men had gathered to question the Boss, and among them the victim recognized one of his detractors. The impulse was strong to snub, but taught by the leader's example, he smiled instead and dropped a friendly nod.
"Seeking whom you may devour, gentlemen?" inquired the Boss. "So am I.
It's past my lunch hour, you know."