"You wonder whether we had to grease anybody's paw about that switch-track over in Ada Street?"
Dround nodded. "The papers say so!"
"They have to print something, don't they? What harm does that do us? I wouldn't trust the whole d——n bunch of papers with a ten-dollar bill. They're a lot of blackmailers—that's what they are!"
John bit off the end of a cigar and spat it out in front of Mr. Dround.
"We are not concerned with the newspapers or their motives, Mr. Carmichael," the senior member observed with considerable dignity. "What I want is your assurance that this firm—that, so far as we are concerned, this accusation is false."
We waited for the Irishman's reply. It would be an easy matter to tell a fib and set Mr. Dround's mind at rest. But Carmichael seemed to be in a specially bad temper this morning. When he went to New York he was accustomed to enjoy himself, and it was not the right time to badger a man just off the cars. Pretty soon John said fiercely:—
"It's my business to look after such matters?"
Mr. Dround nodded.
"Don't I do it satisfactorily?"
Mr. Dround waived this point.