In the corner of the square, as he swung along toward the Academy Theatre that evening, he found himself suddenly confronted by a man who, lounging against the fence of a shabby dwelling, straightened dramatically at his approach and bent a sharp gaze upon him. He was a tall, shambling fellow with a white cloth swathed about the top of his head; and Varney, in the act of pa.s.sing, suddenly recognized him as the dog man, whom Peter had knocked out the night before. His gaze was a wanton challenge for the young man to stop, and Varney cheerfully accepted it.

"Why, it's--Mr.--er--Hackley, isn't it?"

The man's bandage left only one eye free to operate, and he kept this upon Varney with a curious unwinking stare.

"Yes," said he slowly, "I'm Hackley."

"How'd the dog come out?" asked Varney.

"Dead," said Hackley, as quiet in mien as the Hackley of last night was bellicose. "Dead _an'_ buried."

"I'm sorry," said Varney, his glance on the head-cloth. "The man who did the kicking was a friend of mine, and he wouldn't want you to lose your dog without some compensation. Er--please accept this with his compliments and regrets."

Hackley, his single washed-out eye starting with pleasure, accepted the proffered note with a gesture resembling a clutch, investigated its size in the dim light with hardly concealed delight, and pinned it into his waistcoat pocket with a large bra.s.s safety-pin. Then he raised his head slowly and looked at Varney.

"Why n't you leave town to-night, Stanhope?" he inquired casually.

Varney started. Almost to the very language this was exactly what Editor Smith had suggested to him the night before.

"Why do you call me Stanhope, Hackley? My name happens to be Laurence Varney."

Mr. Hackley's gaze never relaxed. "Chuck it," he said without emotion.

"A sensible and eddicated man," he added impersonally, "never lies when a lie couldn't do him no good. If I was you, Stanhope, I wouldn't lose a minute in cuttin' loose from this town."

"If I were Stanhope, I daresay I wouldn't either. But suppose I were,"

he added, "why shouldn't I stay here if I wanted to?"

"For one reason," said Mr. Hackley deliberately, "there's me. When I'm a-feelin' myself, there ain't a cammer, a more genteel nor lor-abidin'

citizen in Hunston. As for fussin' and fightin', I'd no more think of it than a dyin' inverlid in the orspitle. But only throw a few drinks under my belt like last night, and I'm a altogether different creetur. And I'm mighty afraid that the next time I over-drink myself and don't rightly know what I'm doin', I'll go out after you with a club. And then there'll be trouble."

"But why should you want to go after Stanhope with a club? What did he ever do to you?"

"Don't you know? I married Mamie Orrick's little sister!"

"Most interesting," said Varney, "as a bit of genealogy, but what's it got to do with Stanhope and the club?"

But Mr. Hackley said again, cryptically: "Chuck it." Then, softened by the young man's pleasant ways, and by the windfall of a fortune pinned into his vest: "Be sensible, Stanhope," he added amiably. "I ain't the only one. Old Orrick's heard that you've hit the town and is totin' a gun and talk-in' wild. And, of course, there's others. Don't jump off no tall buildin's, I say, expectin' Providence to land you soft. There's a train to Noo York at eight-ten. Cut while you can!"

"Why, thanks," said Varney, laughing and starting on. "If I should see Mr. Stanhope at any time, I won't fail to pa.s.s him the friendly tip."

"And if you should see that friend o' yourn," called Hackley after him, "him that gimme the paste in the jor--you c'n just tell him that Jim Hackley is goin' to fix you both, _good!_"

"At your convenience, Hackley."

The young man pa.s.sed on, undisturbed by the dog man's quaint menaces. He did not exactly see himself and Peter getting into trouble at the hands of a crack-brained village humorist.

Streams of people, converging from all directions, guided him easily to the theatre. Pushing his way in, he found the stage empty and the proceedings not yet begun; and he stood for a minute at the inner door, glancing over the house. It was crowded. Oratory is a real inducement in societies seldom blessed with that attraction. Even lemonade is a magnet if you get it seldom and never to surfeit. Already men were sitting in the long low windows which ran down either side of the building; and a score of ushers, singularly alert-looking men, were hurriedly distributing camp-chairs to accommodate the overflow. Certainly, Peter could have desired no better setting for his daring adventure for reform.

Thanks to the reserved seat which his friend's reluctant liberality had furnished him, Varney was in no hurry to join the throng inside.

Presently, to get clear of the rush at the doors, he strolled into the lobby and idly stood at one side, watching the people streaming by.

Thus, by sheer luck, he became witness to the crucial episode of the evening. An oily Teutonic voice spoke just at his elbow:

"Id's eight o'clock, I zee. We'd better go back und gif Taylor his speech, I guess."

The young man turned. He happened to be standing just in front of the little cubby of a box-office. In it stood two men, one large and fat and blonde, the other short and stocky and dark. This latter, looking up from a typewritten ma.n.u.script, spoke briefly:

"No hurry. Find Smith if you can and send him here."

The fat oily person departed obediently. Immediately there stepped through the door of the box-office a rough-looking man in a slouch hat, with three days' stubble stippling a grimy chin. He shut the door carefully and came near. Varney, from where he stood, could see and hear everything.

"Mr. Ryan?"

The stocky, dark man nodded. _Aha!_ thought Varney.

"Then step outside a minute, will yer? There's a genaman wants to speak to you right away on a matter as concerns you close."

Ryan coldly looked the man over: "Then tell him to come in here. No! I ain't got no time to fool with him now. Tell him to go to the devil."

The stranger never moved a muscle. "There's a reason w'y he can't come in here--you'll see when you come outside, all right." Then bringing his dark face sharply a foot nearer, he went on in a hasty undertone: "Hey, you! Ever hear of a man named Maginnis?"

Ryan had: Peter's fame had traveled far in Hunston that day.

"Well, listen! There's a game on to bust this meetin' to-night and put the hook into you good and hard. Maginnis has spent a thousand to do it.

D'yer savvy? Now will yer step lively?"

The boss considered a moment and then stepped lively. Varney, falling in behind, stepped lively too, his curiosity strongly stirred. But outside, before the theatre, there was no sign of a gentleman awaiting an audience: only the people pouring on into the Academy.

"Around the corner," whispered the dark man hoa.r.s.ely. "He da.s.sen't wait here. Quick!"

Around the corner the pair hurried, Varney close in their wake. In the silent alley, half-hidden in the shadows of the building, stood a large carriage with a pair of strapping bays tugging at their traces. They halted before it, and the stranger, who had considerately taken Ryan's arm, flung open the door.

"Here he is, Jim--Mr. Ryan. Now you c'n tell him--"

The sentence died unended. At the same moment the sound of a violent scuffle smote the nocturnal air. It appeared that Jim, presumably laboring under an unfortunate misapprehension, had not received his visitor with that refined hospitality due from one gentleman to another.

Even more inexplicable, it looked in the deceitful darkness, remarkably as though the boss's guide, suddenly dropping that gentleman's arm, had laid forcible hold upon his outraged and madly protesting legs.

It was all over in a minute. There was a faint yell, quickly and violently m.u.f.fled. Then the carriage door banged, leaving n.o.body on the sidewalk, and the horses, responding to an acutely painful lash from the strong arm on the box, sprang forward at the gallop.

Varney stood in the dark alley, looking after the vanishing carriage with mingled admiration and amazement. Swift footsteps sounded near him; and the next moment a strong hand seized him and pulled him back into the shadow of the wall.

"_Sh-h! It's me_! Anybody see it?"

"_h.e.l.lo!_ Not a soul but me."

Peter leaned against the wall and drew a deep breath.

"He can never prove it on me--not to save his soul!--_and I hold his meeting in the hollow of my hand_. Do you see that lighted window at the back there? That's my last bridge. Waiting in there are the chairman of the meeting and the mayor, who's the orator of the evening. I'm going in and make 'em take me on as one of the platform speakers. I'll pa.s.s out a few remarks and call on Hare--"