“No, he wasn’t!” he cried, “because he run away! And left an old man in the street—dead, for all he knowed—nor cared neither. Yah!” shrieked the Tammany heeler. “Him a Reformer, yah!”
“Stand away from my car,” shouted Winthrop, “or you’ll get hurt.”
“Yah, you’d like to, wouldn’t you?” returned Mr. Schwab, leaping nimbly to one side. “What do you think The Journal ’ll give me for that story, hey? ‘Ernest Peabody, the Reformer, Kills an Old Man, AND RUNS AWAY.’ And hiding his face, too! I seen him. What do you think that story’s worth to Tammany, hey? It’s worth twenty thousand votes!” The young man danced in front of the car triumphantly, mockingly, in a frenzy of malice. “Read the extras, that’s all,” he taunted. “Read ’em in an hour from now!”
Winthrop glared at the shrieking figure with fierce, impotent rage; then, with a look of disgust, he flung the robe off his knees and rose. Mr. Schwab, fearing bodily injury, backed precipitately behind the policeman.
“Come here,” commanded Winthrop softly. Mr. Schwab warily approached. “That story,” said Winthrop, dropping his voice to a low whisper, “is worth a damn sight more to you than twenty thousand votes. You take a spin with me up Riverside Drive where we can talk. Maybe you and I can ‘make a little business.’”
At the words, the face of Mr. Schwab first darkened angrily, and then lit with such exultation that it appeared as though Winthrop’s efforts had only placed Peabody deeper in Mr. Schwab’s power. But the rat-like eyes wavered, there was doubt in them, and greed, and, when they turned to observe if any one could have heard the offer, Winthrop felt the trick was his. It was apparent that Mr. Schwab was willing to arbitrate.
He stepped gingerly into the front seat, and as Winthrop leaned over him and tucked and buckled the fur robe around his knees, he could not resist a glance at his friends on the sidewalk. They were grinning with wonder and envy, and as the great car shook itself, and ran easily forward, Mr. Schwab leaned back and carelessly waved his hand. But his mind did not waver from the purpose of his ride. He was not one to be cajoled with fur rugs and glittering brass.
“Well, Mr. Winthrop,” he began briskly. “You want to say something? You must be quick—every minute’s money.”
“Wait till we’re out of the traffic,” begged Winthrop anxiously, “I don’t want to run down any more old men, and I wouldn’t for the world have anything happen to you, Mr.—” He paused politely.
“Schwab—Isadore Schwab.”