It was while Jeff was doing the City Hall run that there came to him one night at his rooms a man he had known in the old days when he had lived in the river bottom district. If he was surprised to see him the reporter did not show it. “Hello, Burke! Come in. Glad to see you.” Farnum took the hat of his guest and relieved his awkwardness by guiding him to a chair and helping him get his pipe alight. “How's everything? Little Mike must be growing into a big boy these days. Let's see. It's three years since I've seen him.” A momentary flicker lit the gloomy eyes of the Irishman. “He's a great boy, Mike is. He often speaks of you, Mr. Farnum. “Glad to know it. And Mrs. Burke?” “Fine.” “That leaves only Patrick Burke. I suppose he hasn't fallen off the water wagon yet.” The occupation of Burke had been a threadbare joke between them in the old days. He drove a street sprinkler for the city. “That's what he has. McGuire threw the hooks into me this morning. I've drove me last day.” “What's the matter?” “I'm too damned honest.... or too big a coward. Take your choice.” “All right. I've taken it,” smiled the reporter. Pat brought his big fist down on the table so forcefully that the books shook. “I'll not go to the penitentiary for an-ny man.... He wanted me to let him put two other teams on the rolls in my name. I wouldn't stand for it. That was six weeks ago. To-day he lets me out.” Jeff began to see dimly the trail of the serpent graft. He lit his pipe before he spoke. “Don't quite get the idea, Pat. Why wouldn't you?” “Because I'm on the level. I'll have no wan tellin' little Mike his father is a dirty thief....It's this way. The rolls were to be padded, understand.” “I see. You were to draw pay for three teams when you've got only one.” “McGuire was to draw it, all but a few dollars a month.” The Irishman leaned forward, his eyes blazing. “And because I wouldn't stand for it I'm fired for neglecting my duty. I missed a street yesterday. If he'd been frientlly to me I might have missed forty.... But he can't throw me down like that. I've got the goods to show he's a dirty grafter. Right now he's drawing pay for seven teams that don't exist.” “And he doesn't know you know it?” “You bet he don't. I've guessed it for a month. To-day I went round and made sure.” Jeff asked questions, learned all that Burke had to tell him. In the days that followed he ran down the whole story of the graft so secretly that not even the city editor knew what he was about. Then he had a talk with the “old man” and wrote his story. It was a red-hot exposure of one of the most flagrant of the City Hall gang. There was no question of the proof. He had it in black and white. Moreover, there was always the chance that in the row which must follow McGuire might peach on Big Tim himself, the boss of all the little bosses. Within twenty-four hours Jeff was summoned to a conference at which were present the city editor and Warren, now managing editor.