“Very well,” responded King.  “That’s your prerogative.  You’ve a paper of your own....  And now get out of here,” he added curtly.  “Never show your face inside this door again.”

Later at the Bank Exchange McGowan found the supervisor cursing as he raised a glass of whiskey with a trembling hand.

“Well, did you make him insult you?”

“Damn him,” was all Casey could answer.  “Damn him.  Damn him.”  He tossed the raw liquor down his throat and poured another drink.  McGowan smiled.

“You can do that till Doomsday and it won’t hurt him.”  McGowan’s voice rang with contempt.  “Is that all you can do?  Are you afraid—­”

Casey interrupted fiercely.  “I’m NOT afraid.  You know it.  I’ll get even.”

“How?”

“Never mind.  You’ll see,” the politician muttered darkly.

“You’re a drunken fool,” remarked McGowan.  “You’ve no chance with King.  He’s twice as big as you.  He carries a derringer.  And he shoots straight.  Listen to me.”  He dragged the other to a corner of the room; they sat there for at least an hour arguing, drinking.

* * * * *

James King of William watched Casey’s exit from the Bulletin with a smile.  He recalled his wife’s warning that morning as he left his home, “Look out for Casey, James.”

“Pooh, Charlotte,” he had reassured her.  “I’ve far worse enemies than that prison rat.”

She had merely smiled, smoothed a wrinkle from his coat and kissed him, a worried look in her eyes.  Then the children had gathered round him.  Little Annie wanted a toy piano, Joe some crayons for his work at school.

Remembering this, King seized a desk pad, wrote on it some words of memoranda.  Then he straightway forgot Casey in the detail of work.

When the Bulletin was off the press, the pad, with its written inscription, caught his eye and he shoved it into a side pocket.

“Well, I’m going home,” he said to Nesbitt.  “Must buy a few things for the children.”

Nesbitt looked up half absently from his writing.  “Afternoon,” he greeted.  “Better take your derringer.  Don’t know what might happen.”

King shrugged himself into the talma cape, which he usually wore on the streets.  It is doubtful if he heard Nesbitt’s warning.  With a nod to Gerberding he sauntered slowly out, enjoying the mellow spring sunshine, filtering now and then through wisps of fog.  As he turned into Montgomery street he almost collided with Benito Windham, who, brief case under arm, was striding rapidly southward.  They exchanged a cordial greeting.  Benito looked after the tall courtly figure crossing Montgomery street diagonally toward a big express wagon.  Benito thought he could discern a quick nervous movement back of it.  A man stepped out, directly across King’s path.

He was James P. Casey, tremendously excited.  His right hand shook violently.  His hat was on one side of his head; he was apparently intoxicated.  King did not notice him until they were almost abreast.