he street. "Come down and have a
drink."

The associate editor lifted his head. "Don't be young," he retorted. "Go
home and sleep it off." And reverted to his task.

"What are we doin' here, anyway?" roared some thirster for information.

Nobody answered. But, thus recalled to a purpose, the mob pressed
against the ropes.

"Ladies _and_ gentlemen!" A great, rounded voice boomed out above them,
drawing every eye to the farthermost window where stood Dr. Surtaine,
his chest swelling with ready oratory.

"Hooray!" yelled the crowd. "Good Old Doc!"--"He pays the
freight."--"Speech!"

"Say, Doc," bawled a waggish soul, "I gotta corn, marchin' up here. Will
Certina cure it?"

And another burst into the final lines of a song then popular; in which
he was joined by several of his fellows:

"Father, he drinks Seltzer.
Redoes, like hell!
(_Crescendo_.) He drinks Cer-tee-nah!"

"Ladies _and_ gentlemen," boomed the wily charlatan. "Unaccustomed as I
am to _extempore_ speaking, I cannot let pass this opportunity to
welcome you. We appreciate this testimonial of your regard for the
'Clarion.' We appreciate, also, that it is a warm night and a thirsty
one. Therefore, I suggest that we all adjourn back to the Old Twelfth
Ward, where, if the authorities will kindly look the other way, I shall
be delighted to provide liquid refreshments for one and all in which to
drink to the health and prosperity of an enlightened free press."

The crowd rose to him with laughter. "Good old Sport!"--"Mine's
Certina."--"Come down and make good."--"Free booze, free speech, free
press!"--"You're on, Doc! You're on."

"He's turned the trick," growled Dr. Elliot to Hal. "He's a smooth one!"

Indeed, the crowd wavered, with that peculiar swaying which presages a
general movement. At the south end there was a particularly dense
gathering, and there some minor struggle seemed to be in progress. Cries
rose: "Let him through."--"What's he want?"

"It's Max Veltman," said Hal, catching sight of a wild, strained face.
"What is he up to?"

The former "Clarion" man squirmed through the front rank and crawled
slowly under the ropes. Above the murmur of confused tones, a voice of
terror shrilled out:

"He's got a bomb."

The mass surged back from the spot. Veltman, moving forward upon the
unprotected south end of the press, was fumbling at his pocket. "I'll
fix your free and enlightened press," he screamed.

Dr. Elliot turned on Hal wit