Neither Big Tim nor the respectable buccaneers back of him were
laughing now. They were fighting with every ounce in them to sweep
back the wave of civic indignation the _World_ had gathered into a
compact aggressive organization.

Young Ned Merrill, who represented the interests of the allied
corporations, had Big Tim on the carpet. The young man had not
been out of Harvard more than three years, but he did not let any
nonsense about fair play stand in his way. In spite of the clean-
cut look of him--he was broadshouldered and tall, with an effect
of decision in the square cleft chin that would some day
degenerate into fatness--Ned Merrill played the game of business
without any compunctions.

"You're making a bad fight of it, O'Brien. Old style methods won't
win for us. These crank reformers have got the people stirred up.
Keep your ward workers busy, but don't expect them to win." He
leaned forward and brought his fist down heavily on the desk.
"We've got to smash Farnum--discredit him with the bunch of sheep
who are following him."

"What more do youse want? We're callin' him ivery black name under
Hiven."

Merrill shook his head decisively. "Not enough. Prove something.
Catch him with the goods."

"If youse'll show me how?"