“It is n’t that.”
“No. I know. It’s the being counted out.” He wrote a prescription, looked up from it to study the silent and downcast patient, then tore it up and flung the pieces in the air. “I’m not going to coddle you with minor dopes,” he declared vigorously. “Jem, I read The Record editorial this evening. How much did that have to do with your warlike ambitions.”
“It hurt,” confessed Jeremy.
“It was meant to. Know who wrote it?”
“Farley, I suppose.”
“And you call yourself a newspaperman! Farley’s got the malice, but not the sting.”
“Who did, then?”
“Wymett.”
“Wymett?”
“I’d spot his style across the continent even if I did n’t know he was here. Don’t you see the game?”