“Let me suggest something,” put in the old man. “Come and see my friend Ed MacKellar. He may be able to give us some advice—even to think of some way to get the mine open.” Edstrom explained that MacKellar, an old Scotchman, had been a miner, but was now crippled, and held some petty office in Pedro. He was a persistent opponent of “Alf” Raymond's machine, and they had almost killed him on one occasion. His home was not far away, and it would take little time to consult him.
“All right,” said Hal, and they set out at once. Pete Hanun followed them, not more than a dozen yards behind, but did not interfere, and they turned in at the gate of a little cottage. A woman opened the door for them, and asked them into the dining-room where MacKellar was sitting—a grey-haired old man, twisted up with rheumatism and obliged to go about on crutches.
Hal told his story. As the Scotchman had been brought up in the mines, it was not necessary to go into details about the situation. When Hal told his idea of appealing to the newspapers, the other responded at once, “You won't have to go to Western City. There's a man right here who'll do the business for you; Keating, of the Gazette.”
“The Western City Gazette?” exclaimed Hal. He knew this paper; an evening journal selling for a cent, and read by working-men. Persons of culture who referred to it disposed of it with the adjective “yellow.”
“I know,” said MacKellar, noting Hal's tone. “But it's the only paper that will publish your story anyway.”
“Where is this Keating?”
“He's been up at the mine. It's too bad you didn't meet him.”
“Can we get hold of him now?”
“He might be in Pedro. Try the American Hotel.”
Hal went to the telephone, and in a minute was hearing for the first time the cheery voice of his friend and lieutenant-to-be, “Billy” Keating. In a couple of minutes more the owner of the voice was at MacKellar's door, wiping the perspiration from his half-bald forehead. He was round-faced, like a full moon, and as jolly as Falstaff; when you got to know him better, you discovered that he was loyal as a Newfoundland dog. For all his bulk, Keating was a newspaper man, every inch of him “on the job.”