Had Micky chanced to look around at that moment he might have seen a man following him, who, had O'Byrn known it, could have given him some interesting and definite pointers on that desired story. The man had emerged from around the corner of Shaughnessy's building a moment after Judge Boynton left and Micky had started down the street. Gaining the opposite side of the thoroughfare, the fellow, who had evidently been eavesdropping, followed O'Byrn, keeping some distance in the rear, until a point was reached where Micky turned to go toward the Courier office. The other man kept straight on. A little later, as he had figured upon doing, Micky met some of the boys in a lunch room which they were wont to visit at that hour. Dick was there, and Mead and Fatty Stearns. The latter was talking. "Gee!" exclaimed Fatty, breathlessly, while the expletive blew a formidable charge of bread crumbs toward the shrinking company, "but there'll be doin's this election! There'll be doin's! Watcha think, Micky?" "I think you need an interpreter, Fatty, when you try to talk with your mouth full," replied O'Byrn. "Don't talk, Fatty. You sound like a dog that's trying to breathe in July; you do, really. One of those expectorating dogs." "Gee! What's those?" demanded Fatty, helplessly. "Spitz!" replied Micky, and dodged a crust launched by the justly indignant Glenwood. "Cheese it, fellows," put in Mead. "About this election. Fusion's got no chance now. Judge Boynton'll win in a walk." "For how much?" in a flash. O'Byrn's hand was in his pocket. "Well," remarked Mead, reflectively, "I'm not exactly lined with dough, but I'll put an X on it. Have to stipulate that it's a futurity, though; for, needless to say, I haven't as much as that in my clothes three days after pay day." "Neither have I," laughed O'Byrn. "This diggin' down was a bluff. But I'll see your ten all right. This bum line of witnesses will take notice. Loser touches someone to pay the winner. All fine 'nd dandy." Mead acquiesced, albeit with an implied something of uncertainty in his demeanor. The rotund Stearns voiced it in nervous words. "Gee! Mead," he exclaimed, "you're a chump to bet your stuff on another fellow's game." "Go die somewhere, Fatty," suggested Micky. "There's no game yet, but," with a queer grin at Mead, "there's going to be before this thing's over. Want to renig, Mead? Can if you want to." "No!" indignantly rejoined Mead. "I'll see it through. If you really have something in your Irish sleeve, O'Byrn, I'll bet it's worth the money." "Nothin' yet," murmured Micky, as they prepared to depart, "but I tell you, boys, that sleeve's a Christmas stockin' just now, and I'm gettin' eye-strain watchin' for Santa Claus." CHAPTER XIV A DISCREDITED HENCHMAN