front page. "That cut came out pretty well, didn't it? Lucky we got the photograph before big brother George arrived."
"I have always found San Marco lucky," replied Gonzale. "Always—with one trifling exception." He drummed reminiscently on his desk.
"I say—who's this?" Mr. Wall pointed to a line just beneath the name of the paper. "Robert O'Neill, Editor and Proprietor," he read.
Manuel Gonzale gurgled softly somewhere within, which was his cunning, non-committal way of indicating mirth.
"Ah—my very virtuous managing editor," he said. "One of those dogs who dealt so vilely with me—I have told you of that Manuel Gonzale does not forget." He leaned closer. "This morning at two, after O'Neill and Howe had sent to-day's paper to press as usual, Luypas, my circulation manager, and I arrived. My virtuous editors had departed to their rest Luypas and I stopped the presses, we substituted a new first-page form. O'Neill and Howe—they will not know. Always they sleep until noon. In this balmly climate, it is easy to lie abed."
