On January 17 the Cora jury announced its inability to agree.  The trial ended minus a conviction.

* * * * *

Ned McGowan, James P. Casey, Sheriff Scannell and his aid, Billy Mulligan, had frequent conferences in the offices of Casey’s Sunday Times.  Broderick held more or less aloof from his political subordinates these troublous days.  But Charley Duane, former chief engineer of the fire department, was their frequent consort.  The Sunday Times concentrated its fire chiefly on James King of William.  It was his biting, unstudied verbiage that struck “The Federal Brigade” on the raw.

Early in May the Times accused Thomas King, the Bulletin editor’s brother, of scheming by illegal means to gain the office that Richardson’s death had left vacant.

To this imputation, the Bulletin made a sharp reply.  Among other items calculated to enrage his foe appeared the following: 

“The fact that Casey has been an inmate of Sing Sing prison in New York is no offense against the laws of this State; nor is the fact of his having stuffed himself through the ballot box, as elected to the Board of Supervisors from a district where it is said he was not even a candidate, any justification why Mr. Bagley should shoot Casey, however richly he may deserve having his neck stretched for such fraud upon the people....”

There was more, but this was all that Casey read.  He tore the paper into shreds and stamped upon it, inarticulate with fury.  When at last he found his tongue a flood of obscenities flowed.  He drew a pistol from his pocket; brandishing the weapon, he reached for the door knob.  But Doane, who had brought the paper, caught his arm.

“Don’t be a fool.  Put that pistol away,” he warned.  “The public’s crazy-mad about the Cora verdict.  They won’t stand for shooting King.”

“Listen,” said McGowan, craftily, “go up there and protest like a gentleman.  Try to make the ——­ insult you in the presence of a witness....  Afterward—­we’ll see.”

CHAPTER XLI

THE FATEFUL ENCOUNTER

James King of William sat with his back toward the door when Casey, still a-quiver with rage but endeavoring to control himself, entered the Bulletin office.  He stumbled over the doorsill.

King turned.  When he saw who the intruder was, he laid down a handful of proofs and rose.  Casey glared at him.

“What do you mean,” cried the politician, trying to speak calmly, “by publishing that article about me in the Bulletin?”

King transfixed him with accusing eyes.  “About the ballot-box stuffing ... or your Sing Sing record, Casey?” he inquired.

“You—­you know well enough,” blustered Casey.  “It’s an outrage to rake up a man’s past....  A fellow’s sensitive about such things.”

He shook a fist at King.  “If necessary, I’ll defend myself.”