His
name needed not to be told; it was on every lip that morning, and in every
heart.
Tom was eagerly watching his companion as he read. Harkless fell back on
the pillows with a drawn face, and for a moment he laid his thin hand over
his eyes in a gesture of intense pain.
"What is it?" Meredith said quickly.
"Give me the pad, please."
"What is it, boy?"
The other's teeth snapped together.
"What is it?" he cried. "What is it? It's treachery, and the worst I ever
knew. Not a word of the accusation I demanded--lying _praises_ instead!
Read that editorial--there, _there_!" He struck the page with the back of
his hand, and threw the paper to Meredith. "Read that miserable lie! 'One
who has won the love and respect of every person in the district!'--'One
who has suffered for his championship of righteousness!' _Righteousness!_
Save the mark!"
"What does it mean?"
"Mean! It means McCune--Rod McCune, 'who has lived under a threat for
years'--_my_ threat! I swore I would print him out of Indiana if he ever
raised his head again, and he knew I could. 'Almost overborne in the
fulfilment of that threat!' _Almost_! It's a black scheme, and I see it
now. This man came to Plattville and went on the 'Herald' for nothing in
the world but this. It's McCune's hand all along. He daren't name him even
now, the coward! The trick lies between McCune and young Fisbee--the old
man is innocent.
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