“Governor,” began Harry pointedly, a new idea beginning to dawn upon him, “if you do not know that a great deal of your property is rented and used for the most immoral purposes how do you know this address so well?”
“Why,” spluttered Boland, senior, “I—I’ve read the papers.”
“But this vile section of the city that you own has never been published.”
“Look here, Harry,” demanded his father, aggressively, “do you doubt my word?”
“I do,” was the firm reply.
“I’m your father,” he retorted angrily.
“You are,” agreed Harry, “but this is a matter of right and wrong, and you can’t fool me again as you have all these years.”
“I’ll show you who’s master,” threatened John Boland, grimly.
“It’s your privilege to try,” conceded the son with suppressed anger.
“Hold on—hold on,” hedged his father, apologetically, “don’t let’s get mad about it. Finish up that contract and then—”