which had paled suddenly and who seemed to shrink from Bryant's scrutiny.
"I haven't heard you making a noise about raising the assessment of Chief Pontiac in your township to a cash-value basis, Art!"
Even the fly was silent.
The blue eyes swept the faces again and the editor's voice rose a bit, not quite steady, as he strove to hold his anger down.
"I haven't heard any of you objecting to the low assessment of this corporation, which, as any of us know, will run over six million dollars cash value! More, market value! I've heard a mighty roar against Foraker's Folly; I haven't heard a whisper against Chief Pontiac—I'm not going to discuss this; I'm not going to ask you why?" a ripple of relief ran over the group. "I'm going to tell you why!"
His voice had leaped to a roar and his hand went quickly to his pocket, bringing forth the worn notebook. The silence was painful as he drew down his spectacles from his forehead and fumbled the pages.
"I have here memoranda which interests me, and will interest you, and will interest perhaps—perhaps, the electorate, perhaps the tax commission, perhaps the prosecuting attorney of this county if properly urged by the governor of our great state."
He looked into the book.
"I read at random: At the top of the page, I find this date: January 4, 1915. Below is written the name of Oliver Burns, uncle of the present supervisor from Lincoln township, veteran member of this body until his death. In the next column is written the time, 1.32 p.m.; which
