Sam hoped it wouldn't keep him from work that afternoon.
Wilbur said "Possibly not," though he knew he would now loathe the linotype forever.
"By the way"-- he managed it jauntily, as Sam bent again over his pad of yellow copy paper--"I see Lyme Teaford's name is going to be in print this week." Sam paused in his labour and chuckled.
"Yes, the old hard-shell is landed.

That blonde hasn't been bringing him his three meals a day all this time for nothing." "She must have married him for his money," Wilbur heard himself saying in cold, cynical tones.

The illumining thought had just come.

That explained it.
"Sure," agreed Sam.

"Why wouldn't she ?" * * * * * Late that afternoon, in the humble gymnasium at the rear of Pegleg McCarron's, Spike Brennon emerged from a rally in which Wilbur Cowan had displayed unaccustomed spirit.