He played nervously with the ends
of his fingers and wished he were out of the ward and safely out of
range of the prying eyes of the press. In fancy he could hear his
daughter screaming with horror at the sight of his name spread in
glaring letters before the world and thought of her with a flush of
abhorrence on her young face turning from him forever. In his terror
his mind darted here and there. A name sprang to his lips. "It might
have been Andy Brown," he said, puffing at the stogie.
The little boss whirled his chair about. He began picking up the
papers scattered about his desk. When he spoke his voice was again
soft and mild. "It was Andy Brown," he said. "Whisper the word about.
Let a _Tribune_ man locate Brown for you. Handle this right and
you will save your own scalp and get the fool papers off the back of
the First."
* * * * *
The arrest of Brown brought respite to the ward. The prediction of the
shrewd little boss made good. The newspapers dropped the clamorous cry
for reform and began demanding instead the life of Andrew Brown.
Newspaper artists rushed into police headquarters and made hurried
sketches to appear an hour later blazoned across the face of extras on
the streets. Grave scientific men got their pictures printed at the
heads of articles on "Criminal Characteristics of the Head and Face.
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