"After Pearl's address, the ladies of the district served refreshments, and a good time was spent. Pearl's arm must have ached, shaking hands, and if she could be spoiled with praise, she would be spoiled for sure, but Pearl is not that kind. It is rumored that she will be offered the Purple Springs school, and if she accepts, we congratulate Purple Springs."
When George Steadman read the Chicken Hills news, his face became a yellowish gray color—much like the hue of badly laundried clothes. His skin prickled, as if with an electric current, for hot rage ate into his soul. His name was not even mentioned. He wasn't there at all—and he was the member for Millford. Of all the silly rot—well, he'd see about it.
On Monday morning, with the offending sheet in his hand, Mr. Steadman made his way to the "Mercury" office, a dingy, little flat-roofed building, plastered with old circus posters outside, and filled with every sort of junk inside. At an unpainted desk piled high with papers, sat the editor. His hair stood up like a freshly laundried, dustless mop; his shirt was dirty; his pipe hung listlessly in his mouth—upside down, and a three days' crop of black beard peppered his face. He looked like a man who in early youth had slept on newspapers and drank ink, and who now would put his feet on the table if there had been room, but there was scarcely room for them on the floor, for it was under the table that he kept his exchanges. There were shelves around the walls, but they were filled with rubber boots, guns, baskets of letters, a few books, miscellaneous articles of clothing and some empty tobacco jars.
So on account of the congested condition on and under the table, Mr. Driggs was forced to sit in an uncomfortable position, with his legs and those of the table artistically entwined.
Mr. Steadman began, without replying to the editor's friendly greeting:
"Who writes this balderdash from our district," he asked harshly.
"Professional secret," replied Mr. Driggs, speaking through his shut teeth, for he did not wish to dislodge his pipe; the last time he let it out of his mouth he had had no end of a time finding it. "Never give away names of contributors, not etiquette."
"I don't care a hang for your etiquette—I want to know. The member for Millford was not in a trifling mood.
"Sorry," said Mr. Driggs, holding his pipe still closer.
"See here, Driggs," said Mr. Steadman haughtily, "do you know who you're talking to—I have it in my power to throw you a good deal of business one way'n another—I've thrown you a good deal of business. There's an election coming on—there will be bills, cards, streamers, what not; good money in printing for the Government—do you savvy?"