The superintendent shook his head, and later to the contractors he
remarked:--
"Challoner is a dangerous man, I'm afraid."
The contractors laughed.
"Oh, he'll come around, all right!" they assured him. "They all do,
after a bit."
But in this case, the superintendent happened to be right. And the
"ring,"--the inner circle of the political organisation,--descended upon
Challoner like a thousand of brick.
"Come, come," they said, "what's your game? What's your price? Name it
and shut up. How many barrels of cement a day? Come, come now----"
Challoner still shook his head.
"Hang it!" they exclaimed; "he's too noisy."
Then they reasoned with him; but it did no good.
"It's a case of using force," they told each other. "To-morrow
night----"
But to-morrow night never came for Challoner. The game of graft had
sickened him.
"I have got to tell somebody about this," he assured himself. And then
an inspiration came to him. "I know, I'll go to Murgatroyd!"
"Murgatroyd!" He shuddered as he repeated the name, for the prosecutor
had been connected with the thing that had become to Challoner and his
wife a subject forbidden and unmentioned.
But, nevertheless, he went to Murgatroyd.