J. S. Fletcher

“ DID THEY MEET?"
"Bless my soul!" repeated Brackett. "What will Mesham say to that? He'll—gad, sir, if that doesn't force him to something! Here, I'll get a copy of that to hang up in the bar, Mr. Brixey. Publicity, eh, sir—you believe in it?"
Brixey laughed, and, without replying, strolled slowly down the street after the line of placard-bearers. The town was just then filling with the usual Saturday morning crowd, and within a few minutes every other person was thronging the edges of the sidewalks to read the staring red-and-black. ”

“ Can you get men?"
"I can get a dozen if you make it worth their while," said the printer.
"Give ’em five shillings apiece," commanded Brixey, pulling out his money. "Now listen. Let them start out from here at eleven, and walk up and down for two hours in the centre of the town. Isn’t it your market-day?"
"One of them—we’ve two here," assented the printer. This is the town market-day."
"It’s the townsfolk I want to startle," said Brixey. "All right. Go ahead. There’s a fiver—we’ll settle things later, in the morning. But, eleven sharp, mind!" ”

“ His face flamed as scarlet as the printer's ink, and before any of those standing near had noticed his sudden appearance, he lifted the heavy, steel-ended stick which he carried and rushed on the placard-bearer, to find Brixey's square shoulders in front of him.
"My employees, Mr. Mesham," said Brixey quietly. "No interference!"
Mesham glared and glanced and drew back. The procession in the gutter moved on.
"Damn you!" he growled beneath his tightened lips. "Your work! I'll make you pay for this. I'll go to the police. ”