Mr. Mears reached out a great red hand toward the bottle.
"Pardon me—private property," he said. He pocketed it "We bid you good-by and good luck. Think of us on the choo-choo, please. Riding far—riding far."
"But— see here—" cried O'Neill.
"But me no buts," said Mears again. "Nary a question, I beg of you. Take our jobs, and if you think of us at all, think of gleaming rails and a speeding train. Once more—good-by."
The door slammed. O'Neill looked at Howe.
"Fairies," he muttered, "or the D. T's. What is this—a comic opera or a town? You are managing editor, Harry. I shall be city editor. Is there a city to edit? No matter."
"No," said Howe. He reached for the greasy pack of cards. "We draw for it Come on. High wins."
"Jack," announced Mr. O'Neill.
"Deuce," smiled Howe. "What are your orders, sir?"
O'Neill passed one hand before his eyes.
