“'Mexico'!” exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. “There's the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it used to be strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No, sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right.”
“Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of loosening up people.”
“But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's some religion in it.”
McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke.
“I tell you I mean it,” said the editor, testily. “The doctor's got it hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting last spring—I was—when he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair curl.” And the editor proceeded to give a graphic account of the meeting in question.
“Well,” said McKenty, “I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,' pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He knows too much. You've simply got to get after him.”
This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he perceived “Mexico” sauntering down the other side of the street.
“There he is now,” he cried, going toward the door. “Hi! 'Mexico'!” he called, and “Mexico” came slouching across. “Ugly looking beggar, ain't he?” said the editor. “Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!”
“Mornin',” grunted “Mexico,” nodding first to the editor and then to McKenty.
“How is things, 'Mexico'?” said the editor, in his most ingratiating manner.