he yellow journals."

"They're yellow," conceded Harry, "because they contain so many golden
truths."

"Mary Randall, please write," sneered the elder Boland.

"Stop! No!" Grogan, who had been sitting down jumped to his feet in
protest. The others looked at him in astonishment. He sat down again
shamefacedly. "I don't want Mary Randall to write to me," he admitted
dolefully.

"What's come over you, Grogan?" inquired John Boland sharply.

"A blue envelope--a sheet of blue paper with words on it, and--I've got a
pain in the back of my neck." Grogan brought forth the blue letter again
and gazed at it gloomily.

"You're crazy," John Boland informed him curtly. Then he turned to Harry.
"Look here, my boy," he said, "don't be a fool--"

"He's your son," interrupted Grogan chuckling.

"Keep quiet, Mike. You know, Harry, I own that property with Mike here,
and--"

Grogan interrupted again. "Look here, John Boland," he inquired, "how
much will you give me for my share?"

"Two thousand dollars."

"It's yours," said Grogan.

"Why it's worth double that!" exclaimed John Boland.

"Never mind that. It's yours," repeated Grogan. "I'll give two thousand
for my peace of mind any day."

"Are you crazy?"

"Not yet--but I'm headed that way. Take it at two thousand and I'll love
you, John."

"All right."

"But, Governor," protested Harry, "don't you know--"

"Now don't let a fool reform wave scare you," burst out the father
irritably. "Did you ever see a vice investigation get anywhere? Never!
Just a lot of talk and--letters."

Miss Masters appeared with a package of letters in her hands. "Mail, Mr.
Boland," she said. She began sorting the letters. "Four for you, Mr.
Boland," she went on, "and a special for Mr. Harry Boland."

Grogan had been watching her intently. He breathed deeply and muttered:
"Sure and I'm an old fool. Why should I be afraid of letters? Who could
write--"

Miss Masters interrupted. "And one for you, Mr. Grogan," she said
casually.

Grogan dropped into his chair crying: "Help!" Then cautiously he took the
letter from Miss Masters. The envelope was white and he heaved a sigh of
relief.

"What the deuce ails you this morning, Grogan?" demanded John Boland
irritated.

"I'm getting second sight," returned Grogan gloomily, "and I don't like
it."

"Oh, don't be a fool." John Boland began opening his mail. "All this
investigating," he continued, "this talk of a minimum wage law, is just
tal