This, his supreme ambition, had been constantly curbed by Flint's survival; and as the months and years had passed, his hate had grown more deep, more ugly, more venomous.
"Why, curse it," Waldron often thought, "the old dope has taken enough morphine in his lifetime to have killed a hundred ordinary men! And yet he still clings on, and withers, and grows yellow like an old dead leaf that will not drop from the tree! When _will_ he drop?
When _will_ Father Time pick the despicable antique?
My God, is the man immortal ?" Such being the usual tenor of his thoughts, concerning Flint, small wonder that he took the old man's chiding with an ill grace, and warned him pointedly not to continue it.

Now, facing the Billionaire, he fairly stared him out of countenance.

An awkward silence followed.

Both heard, with relief, a rapping at the office door.
"Come!" snapped Flint.
A clerk appeared, with a yellow envelope in hand.
"Another wireless, sir," said he.
Flint snatched it from him.
"Send Herzog and Slade, at once," he commanded, as he ripped the envelope.
"Well, more trouble ?" insolently drawled "Tiger" happy in the paling of the old man's face and the sudden look of apprehension there.
For all answer, Flint handed him the message.

Waldron read: Southern and Gulf States all seemingly cut off from every kind of communication this P.M.Can get no news.