As he strolled homeward along a stately avenue, wondering what he could do to avert the retribution that moved toward the Downeys, and finding that his assistant city-editor's resourcefulness availed him naught, he heard the scamper of feet behind him and whirled about with cane upraised in time to bring a snarling chow dog to a stand.
"Beat it, you brute!" he growled.
"Yeowp!" responded the chow dog, and leaped in air.
"Don't be alarmed," spoke a voice out of the gloom of the nearest lawn. "When he sees a man with a stick, he wants to play."
Sloan peered at the speaker's face. "Isn't this Mr. Wilbram? You were at the Bee office to-day, sir. May I have a word with you about the Willie Downey matter?"
"Come in," said Mr. Wilbram.
VIII
On the first pay-day in May the impending sword cut its thread. Said a messenger to Jacob Downey: "They want you on the eighth floor." Downey set his jaws and followed.
In the mahogany-panelled room A. Lincoln Wilbram turned from the window and transfixed his servitor with eyes that bored like steel bits.
"Downey, I understand you have a literary son."