liam's crusading with The Bulletin," said Richardson,
"he threatens to run all the crooks out of town. It's making a good
deal of talk."

"But King's not a newspaper man," retorted Broderick, puzzled. "He's a
banker. How's he going to run a journal? That takes money--experience."

"Quien sabe?" Richardson vouchsafed. "Sinton of Selover and Sinton's his
financial backer. Jim Nesbitt helps with the writing. You know Nesbitt,
don't you? Slings a wicked pen. But King writes his own editorials I'm
told. He's got a big job on his hands--cleaning up San Francisco.... You
ought to know, Dave Broderick," he laughed meaningly. "Here's to
him, anyhow."

"Don't know if I should drink to that or not," Broderick ruminated,
smiling. "May get after me. I'll take a chance, though. King's straight.
I can always get on with a straight man." He raised his glass.

A friend of Richardson's came up. Broderick did not know him, but he
recognized at his side the well-groomed figure of Charles Cora, gambler
and dandy. "Wancha t'meet Charley," said the introducer, unsteadily, to
Richardson. "Bes' li'l man ever lived." Richardson held out his hand a
bit reluctantly. Cora's sort were somewhat declasse. "Have a drink?"
he invited.

Broderick left them together. Later he saw Richardson quit the gambler's
presence abruptly. The other took a few steps after him, then fell back
with a shrug. Broderick heard the deputy-marshal mutter: "Too damned
fresh; positively insulting," but he thought little of it. Richardson
was apt to grow choleric while drinking. He often fancied himself
insulted, but usually forgot it quickly. So Broderick merely smiled.

On the following day he chanced again upon Richardson, who, to
Broderick's astonishment, still brooded over Cora's "impudent remark."
He did not seem to know just what it was, but the offensive flavor of
it lingered.

"Wonder where he is?" he kept repeating. "Deserves to be thrashed.
Confound his impertinence. May do it yet."

He was drinking. Broderick glanced apprehensively about. The gambler's
sleek form was not in evidence. McGowan came in with Casey and Mulligan.
Casey, too, had been drinking. He was in an evil humor, his usually
jovial face sullen and vengeful.

"Damn the newspapers," he exploded. "They've printed the Sing Sing yarn
on me again. It was brought out at the arraignment."

"Confound it, Broderick, haven't you any influence at all? Can't you
keep such stuff out of type?"

"Somet