“That’s where our independence stands at this moment.”

“I had heard of this, but didn’t quite believe it,” Warrington said.  Bill Osborne evidently knew what was going on, then.  “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“None at all.”

On the street Warrington was stopped by Ben Jordan, the Telegraph’s star reporter, who had worked with Warrington on the Journal.

“Say, Dick, I am glad to see you.  I was going up to your house on purpose to see you.  Come over to Martin’s a minute.  I’ve got some news that might interest you.”

“I don’t like Martin’s place,” said Warrington.  “Let’s compromise on Hanley’s.”

“All right, my boy.”

They walked down to Hanley’s, talking animatedly.

“What will you have, Ben?”

“Musty ale.”

“Two musty ales,” Warrington ordered.  “Well, Ben?”

Ben took a deep swallow of ale.  He was the best all-round reporter in the city; he knew more people than Osborne knew.  Murders, strikes, fires, they were all the same to Ben.  He knew where to start and where to end.  The city editor never sent Ben out on a hunt for scandal; he knew better than to do that.  Nine times out of ten, the other papers got the scandal and Ben’s behavior became one.  The labor unions were Ben’s great stand-by.  On dull days he could always get a story from the unions.  He attended their meetings religiously.  They trusted him implicitly, for Ben never broke his word to any one but his landlady.  He was short and wiry, with a head so large as to be almost a deformity.  On top of this head was a shock of brick-colored hair that resembled a street-cleaner’s broom.  And Ben’s heart was as big as his head.  His generosity was always getting him into financial trouble.

“Dick, you’re a friend of Bennington’s.  You can quietly tip him that his men will go out Monday morning.  There’s only one thing that will avert a strike, and that’s the discharge of the Englishman.”

“Bennington will never discharge him.”

“So I understand.  He’ll have a long strike on his hands.”

“Do you know the inside?”

“Enough to say that the men will go out.  They’re a lot of sheep.  They’ve an idea they’ve been wronged.  But you can’t reason with them.”

“Ben, you go up to the shops yourself and tell Bennington what you know.”

“I don’t know him.  How’ll he take it?”

“Tell him I sent you.”

“I’ll do it, Dick.  But if he kicks me out, the drinks will be on you.  What countermove will he make?”

“Better ask him yourself.  But if you have any influence among the unions, tell them to go slow.  They haven’t sized up Bennington.  Wait a moment.  I’ll give you a note to him.”  He called for paper and envelopes, and wrote: 

Dear John: 

This will introduce to you Mr. Jordan, a reporter in whom I have the greatest confidence.  Whatever you may tell him you may rest assured that he will never repeat.  I am sending him to you in hopes he may suggest some plan by which to ward off the impending strike.  There may be a little self-interest on my side.  A strike just now will raise the devil in politics.  You may trust Jordan fully.