The Call of the Cumberlands

"Take for instance this newspaper war you've inaugurated on the

police," grumbled the corporation lawyer. "It's less dangerous to the

public than these financial crusades, but decidedly more so for

yourself. You are regarded as a dangerous agitator, a marplot! I tell

you, Wilfred, aside from all other considerations the thing is perilous

to yourself. You are riding for a fall. These men whom you are whipping

out of public life will turn on you."

"So I hear. Here's a letter I got this morning--unsigned. That is, I

thought it was here. Well, no matter. It warns me that I have less than

three months to live unless I call off my dogs."

The Honorable Mr. Wickliffe's face mirrored alarm.

"Let me have it," he demanded. "You shouldn't treat such matters

lightly. Men are assassinated in New York. I'll refer it to the police."

Horton laughed.

"That would be in the nature of referring back, wouldn't it? I fancy

it came from some one not so remote from police sympathy."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to stay put. If I can convict certain corrupt members of

the department, I'm going to nail brass-buttoned hides all over the

front of the city hall."

"Have you had any other threats?"

"No, not exactly, but I've had more touching recognition than that.

I've been asked to resign from several very good clubs."

The attorney groaned.

"You will be a Pariah. So will your allies."

It is said that the new convert is ever the most extreme fanatic.

Wilfred Horton had promised to put on his working clothes, and he had

done it with reckless disregard for consequences. At first, he was

simply obeying Adrienne's orders; but soon he found himself playing the

game for the game's sake. Men at the clubs and women whom he took into

dinner chaffed him over his sudden disposition to try his wings. He was

a man riding a hobby, they said. In time, it began to dawn that he,

with others, whom he had drawn to his standards, meant serious war on

certain complacent evils in the world of finance and politics. Sleeping

dogs of custom began to stir and growl. Political overlords, assailed

as unfaithful servants, showed their teeth. From some hidden, but

unfailing, source terribly sure and direct evidence of guilt was being

gathered. For Wilfred Horton, who was demanding a day of reckoning and

spending great sums of money to get it, there was a prospect of things

doing.