"The Thurstons' musicale. I thought you'd be interested in that."
"Let me off, Nan, that's a good fellow," pleaded Keith, whose weariness had vanished. "I'd be delighted to go at any other time. But this is too rich. I must see what the gang has to say."
"I suppose I could drop Ben Sansome a note," assented Nan doubtfully.
"Do! Send the Chink around with it," urged Keith, rising. "I'll get a bite downtown and not bother you."
The gang—as indeed the whole city—took it as a great joke. Of those Keith met, only Jones, the junior partner, failed to see the humour, and he passed the affair off in cavalier fashion. That did not save him from the obligation of setting up the drinks.
"I'm going to fix this thing up in the morning," he stated confidently. "Between you and me, there's evidently been a slip somewhere. Of course it ought never to have been allowed to go so far. I'll see this man King first thing in the morning, and buy him off. Undoubtedly that's about the only reason his paper exists. Wonder where he got the money to start it? He's busted. It can't last long."
"If it keeps up the present gait, it'll last," said Judge Caldwell shrewdly. "Me—I'm going to send in a subscription tomorrow. Wouldn't miss it for anything."
"It'll last as long as he does," growled Terry, "and that'll be about as long as a snowball in hell. What you ought to do, Jones, is what any man of spirit ought to do—call him out!"
"He announces definitely that he won't fight duels," said Calhoun
Bennett.
"Then treat him like the cowardly hound he is," flared the uncompromising Terry. "Take the whip to him; and if that isn't effective, shoot him down as you would any other mad dog!"