Some
day he might crush the woman by actually taking the Pitcher to call.
At his door he dismissed the car. He wanted quiet. He wanted to think it
all out. That morning it had seemed probable that by this time he would
have been occupying a felon's cell, inspecting the magazines and fruit
sent to him. Instead, he was not only free, but he was keeping a man
worth many millions from his own home, and perhaps he had caused that
man's wife to send over to White Plains for some more. It was Ram-tah.
All Ram-tah. If only every one could find his Ram-tah--
Cassidy was reading his favourite evening paper, the one that shrieked
to the extreme limits of its first page in scarlet headlines and mammoth
type. It was a paper that Bean never bought, because the red ink rubbed
off to the peril of one's eighteen-dollar suit.
Cassidy, who for thirty years had voted as the ward-boss directed, was
for the moment believing himself to be a rabid socialist.
"Wall Street crooks!" he began, in a fine orative frenzy. "Dur-r-rinkin'
their champagne whilst th' honest poor's lucky t' git a shell av hops!
Ruh-hobbin' th' tax-pay'r f'r' t' buy floozie gowns an' joold bresslets
f'r their fancy wives an' such. I know th' kind well; not wan cud do a
day's bakin' or windy-washin'!"
He held the noisy sheet before Bean and accusingly pointed a blunt
forefinger. "Burly Blonde Divorcee, Routed Society Burglar," across the
first two columns, but the proceeding was rather tamely typed and the
Burly Blonde's portrait in evening dress was inconspicuous beside the
headlines "Flurry in Federal Express! Wild Scenes on Stock Exchange.
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