"I savvy," said Mr. Driggs cheerfully.
"Well then"—George Steadman was sure now he was going to get the information—"who writes this this stuff from Chicken Hill?"
"I don't know," said the editor calmly, "honest, I don't. This was a new one—strange writing—and all that. I called up Pearl Watson to see if there had been a meeting, and she verified it, but didn't tell me anything. She said you presided. Then I ran the item—I thought it was very good—what's wrong with it? It seemed like real good country correspondence to me—with that bucolic freshness which we expect to find in country contributors, perhaps not the literary polish found in Stoddarts' lectures, but rattling good stuff just the same."
"See here Driggs," the other man interrupted, "listen to me. There's an election coming on—you've always been with us—I don't know what you think—and it don't matter. This girl Watson is against us—and she's as smart as they make them, and has plenty of nerve. Now I don't want to see that girl's name in the paper again. A few more spreads like this—and every district in the country will want her. She don't know her place—she's got nerve enough to speak anywhere. She spits out things, hardly knowing what she means—she's dangerous, I tell you. If the other side got hold of her and primed her what to say, she could do us a lot of harm—here, for mind you, she's got a way with her. We don't want any trouble. There's a little talk of runnin' Doc. Clay, but I believe he's got more sense than to try it. The last man that ran against me lost his deposit. But, understand, Driggs, no mention of this girl, cut out her name."
Then Mr. Driggs slowly took his pipe from his mouth, and laid it carefully on the lowest pile of papers. It's position did not entirely suit him, and he moved it to another resting place. But the effect was not pleasing even then—so he placed it in his pocket, taking a red handkerchief from his other pocket, and laying it carefully over the elusive pipe, to anchor it—if that were possible.
"Mr. Steadman," he said, in his gentlest manner, "sit down."
Removing an armful of sale bills from the other chair, he shoved it over to his visitor, who ignored the invitation.
"You must not attempt to muzzel the press, or take away our blood-bought liberties. Blood-bought liberties is good! It's a serious matter to come to a natural born, heaven inspired Editor, and tell him to curb his news instinct. Pearl Watson is a particular friend of mine. Pearl's sayings and doings are of interest to me as a citizen, therefore, I reason they are of interest to all citizens. She is a young lady of great charm, who does honor to our little town. I stand absolutely for home boosting. Shop at home—shop early—sell your hammer and buy a horn—my motto! Pearl Watson—one of the best ads we have—I'm for her."
"All right," said Mr. Steadman harshly, "you defy me then, and when you defy me, you defy the Government of the Province, the arm of the Government reaches far—Driggs, and you know that before you are done, I'll put you out of business before two weeks have gone by. You owe every one—you owe the paper people—you owe on your printing press. Your creditors are all friends of the Government. All I have to do is to say the word and they'll close you out. The Government will put a man in here who has sense enough to do as he is told."
Mr. Driggs' faced showed more concern than he had exhibited before. There were certain bills he owed—forgotten to be sure in normal times—but now they came up blinking to the light, rudely disinterred by Mr. Steadman's hard words. They had grown, too, since their last appearance, both in size and numbers—and for a moment a shade of annoyance went over his face. Details of business always did annoy him!