“Use your common sense, Pelton, and don’t shriek like a fish-wife,” ordered Ridgway sharply. “No sane man floats a leaky ship. Go to drydock and patch up your reputation, and in a few years you’ll come out as good as new.” All his unprincipled life Pelton had compromised with honor to gain the coveted goal he now saw slipping from him. A kind of madness of despair surged up in him. He took a step threateningly toward the seated man, his hand slipping back under his coat-tails toward his hip pocket. Acridly his high voice rang out. “As a Southern gentleman, seh, I refuse to tolerate the imputations you cast upon me. I demand an apology here and now, seh.” Ridgway was on his feet and across the room like a flash. “Don’t try to bully ME, you false alarm. Call yourself a Southern gentleman! You’re a shallow scurvy impostor. No more like the real article than a buzzard is like an eagle. Take your hand from under that coat or I’ll break every bone in your flabby body.” Flabby was the word, morally no less than physically. Pelton quailed under that gaze which bored into him like a gimlet. The ebbing color in his face showed he could summon no reserve of courage sufficient to meet it. Slowly his empty hand came forth. “Don’t get excited, Mr. Ridgway. You have mistaken my purpose, seh. I had no intention of drawing,” he stammered with a pitiable attempt at dignity. “Liar,” retorted his merciless foe, crowding him toward the door. “I don’t care to have anything more to do with you. Our relations are at an end, seh,” quavered Pelton as he vanished into the outer once and beat a hasty retreat to the elevator. Ridgway returned to his chair, laughing ruefully. “I couldn’t help it, Steve. He would have it. I suppose I’ve made one more enemy.” “A nasty one, too. He’ll stick at nothing to get even.” “We’ll draw his fangs while there is still time. Get a good story in the Sun to the effect that I quarreled with him as soon as I discovered his connection with this mining extension bill graft. Have it in this afternoon’s edition, Steve. Better get Brayton to write it.” Steve nodded. “That’s a good idea. We may make capital out of it after all. I’ll have an editorial in, too. ‘We love him for the enemies he has made.’ How would that do for a heading?” “Good. And now we’ll have to look around for a candidate to put against Mott. I’m hanged if I know where we’ll find one.” Eaton had an inspiration. “I do?” “One that will run well, popular enough to catch the public fancy?” “Yes.” “Who, then?” “Waring Ridgway.” The owner of the name stared at his lieutenant in astonishment, but slowly the fascination o the idea sank in. “By Jove! Why not?” CHAPTER IX. AN EVENING CALL “Says you’re to come right up, Mr. Ridgway,” the bell-hop reported, and after he had pocketed his tip, went sliding off across the polished floor to answer another call. The president of the Mesa Ore-producing Company turned with a good-humored smile to the chief clerk.