"What boy?" said I.

"The boy in charge of the bill file--the boy whose business it was to keep
the file complete."

"Send him to me, you damned scoundrel," said I. "I'll give him a job. What
do you take me for, anyway? And what kind of a cowardly hound are you to
disgrace an innocent boy as a cover for your own crooked work?"

"Really, Mr. Blacklock, this is most extraordinary," he expostulated.

"Extraordinary? I call it criminal," I retorted. "Listen to me. You look
after the legislation calendars for me, and for Langdon, and for Roebuck,
and for Melville, and for half a dozen others of the biggest financiers in
the country. It's the most important work you do for us. Yet you, as shrewd
and careful a lawyer as there is at the bar, want me to believe you trusted
that work to a boy! If you did, you're a damn fool. If you didn't, you're
a damn scoundrel. There's no more doubt in my mind than in yours which of
those horns has you sticking on it."

"You are letting your quick temper get away with you, Mr. Blacklock," he
deprecated.

"Stop lying!" I shouted, "I knew you had been doing some skulduggery when
I first heard your voice on the telephone. And if I needed any proof, the
meek way you've taken my abuse would furnish it, and to spare."

Just then the telephone bell rang and I got the right department and asked
the clerk to read House Bill 427. It contained five short paragraphs. The
"joker" was in the third, which gave the State Canal Commission the right