Murdoch in the Jungle_The Rat Race

End of August 1904

Windsor House Hotel

Awakened by his wife's quiet moans and soft twitches, William lay next to her in their bed. Blushing morning light slipped into the bedroom, adding to the excessive heat of late August. Sheets had been thrown to the floor in the night, leaving them naked and yet still sweaty. At first, he had propped himself up on an elbow and examined, basked in, his wife's beauty as she dreamed. His fingers had tingled with the desire to touch her, stroke the tender skin of her cheek, her lips, her neck, then travel the sometimes gentle, other times swooping, curves of her body. But he controlled the urge, for he did not wish to wake her, and further, such touching would only add flames to the fire – a fire they had agreed not to ignite. Before he lay back down on his back, focusing his attention on the ceiling fan's perpetual spinning, his eyes had stopped at the reason for his current self-denial, bringing a smile to his lips. Right there, between her hip bones, just below her navel, their baby grew.

It was her first moan that did it – so helpless and weak. Like an electric current it had shot straight to his groin, creating a rise in him. He was learning, almost remembering, from before they had been married, how to control the beast. You have to grab hold of it immediately, before it grows too big to handle. Thus, instantly he forced himself to move away, throwing his head back down on his pillow and coaching himself to think of something else – hence the ceiling fan. "Density," he thought, "Hot is less dense and rises, cold is more dense and sinks. Setting the fan direction as such pulls the cooler air upward, starting a convection current, bringing a cool breeze across our bodies ..."

Next to him, Julia's body began its customary wiggling, making it nearly impossible for William's body not to join in, for the rhythm of it seemed to originate in his marrow and it called to him like a sweet siren, irresistible, primal, and secret. Another deeper, longer, more agonous moan sang from her lips. Her rhythm quickened.

The image flashed in his brain, of being on top of her – making love to her so urgently, so desperately, it hurt with the need. "The fan. Look at the fan," he reminded. "You were working on the problem of how to cool the room," he instructed, taking a deep breath.

"William please," Julia called. She was close now. So soon she would have been pulling him so close, pulling him over the edge into bliss. William planted his arms, his buttocks, firmly into the mattress, denying his impulses. Then, Julia's voice from over a decade ago rang in his ear, "How does it feel detective to know that you are the only man in the world who can make my dreams come true?" He giggled to himself with the glee from the memory, of the two of them spending the night together in his office, while Julia was still married to Darcy and they were straining over the struggle of obtaining her divorce. They had argued, and talked it through all night, eventually falling asleep together in his reclining chair. It was the first time he had witnessed Julia having one of her, as it turns out, quite typical, sexual dreams about being with him!

"Mmm," she pumped her body next to him, turning her face towards him, flooding him with her warm, lush breath. Very soon she would waken, move closer, touch his whole body with hers, take succulent hold of his flesh… she would move and push, slow and intoxicatingly against him, let her nostrils suck in his smell, then taste him with her kiss, with her velvety, wet tongue.

He found himself standing, then walking, into the bathroom. He looked at the toilet, but he was too … aroused. "Toothbrush," he thought. The feelings, the urges, the yearning, ever so slightly, demanded less. It was a Sunday – he would dress, go to early mass…

"Brunch surely must be my favorite possible meal!" Julia declared, bouncing in her seat. William's eyes sparkled as their eyes met, he so loved to see her happy, excited, jubilant. Both extremely hungry, neither of them having eaten a bite since last night, they dove wholeheartedly into their early afternoon treat. Now abstaining from sexual activity as per Dr. Tash's advice, they found their intellectual connections took center stage. As was not uncommon, they discussed a case.

"William," Julia asked, "Would there be any reason for a woman's blood to be in his apartment?" She took a sip of her coffee, her blue eyes held to his as she tilted her cup. He stopped his eating, paused, letting the possibilities run through his mind. She put her cup back down and leaned towards him, "What I mean is, he claims the blood you found was his. But what if we could prove it wasn't?" she explained.

It hit him – the memory of when she had rushed into his workroom to tell him about the article. Julia's heart rushed as her husband tilted closer towards her, "The victim was a woman. Sex-determination method, wasn't it?" he said.

"Yes," she responded, her voice a mixture of yelling and whispering, bringing a sense of awe around them. "The XY sex-determination system. All you need is a cell …" She halted her words there and frowned.

"What is it?" he hurried to ask.

Julia leaned back and lifted her fork. "It may not work," she said sounding defeated. She took a deep breath and looked him.

"Why?" he thought right before she went on.

"Red blood cells lack a nucleus," she said.

"Oh, of course. And it is only in the nucleus where these X and Y microscopic entities are located," he finished her thought. He too went back to his meal.

Julia's medical mind hashed through the problem, not yet ready to concede…

William interrupted her thoughts, "Did you buy the New York Times?" he asked. Ruby had called and told them of her front-page story. His curiosity had been piqued.

Her fork was down once again. "I did," she answered. She retrieved the world renowned paper. Ruby's story was below the fold. It was titled, The Rat Race and the "Negro Scab."

"It is about the problems they are having with race relations in Chicago. It seems that the predominantly white immigrant labor force, who are all members of the meatpackers' union … Which you will remember, is striking?" She looked to William to see if he was with her, receiving a nod. "They are angry at the Negroes who are being shipped in from the South – and being protected by the police mind you …" Their eyes met again. "To replace the striking workers on the lines," she continued.

"Does it link the spoiled meat that had killed all those people, does it link that to the strike?" he asked. Finished now, he pushed the plate way, trying to push away his renewed concern about the bacon as well.

She answered, turning the pages of the paper to find where the rest of the story continued, "I'm not sure. I have only read the first part."

Ruby's story went on to explain that in reality a great majority of the workers being shipped in by the wealthy meatpacking owners to do the line work, and thus break the union strike, were actually white. And further, that the mostly white members of the union had violently opposed allowing Negroes into the union, setting up much of the problems between the races that they were facing now. The article also had some sickening descriptions of violence taken against Negroes. Julia read on adding, "It seems the railroad workers sympathize with the strikers and notify them when a trainload of strikebreakers is being shipped into the yards, so the strikers can attack it – throwing rocks and bricks."

William sighed. It sure seemed to be a mess. "Does Ruby explain what a, "Negro Scab," is, from the title?" he asked.

Julia scanned the text looking for the term. She found it near the end. Her eyes rushed back and forth reading the page. She lifted her head and took a deep breath before telling him, "It is a term used by the strikers to describe the Negro strikebreakers. They are thought to be like a scab over the wound the strike has made in the wealthy owners' pockets. Without this "scab," the union would have been more successful."

"Mmm, I see," he said.

Julia found a thought rising to the surface. "As a medical doctor, I have to say, if a wound is quite deep, then a scab just hides the infection… underneath pathogens still fester. Medically speaking, it would be better to keep the wound open," she said. "That is, if what you truly want is healing," she added.

She thought to herself about her cousin, Jonathan, a man who currently owned the biggest meatpacking business in Chicago, probably the world. From what she knew of the man, healing would not be his goal. She had decided not to tell William about this particular relative. The decision only solidified her awareness of her being ashamed of the man. Julia sighed. William had grappled so much with his having become a member of the wealthy class since their marriage, knowing about his American cousin, albeit by marriage, would certainly only add to his struggle. William's words replayed in her head, "It seems the clothes still don't fit the boy." It had been such a big argument they had had, leading her to debase his building of their house. "In the end," she figured, "it had been for the better." Because of that fight, she better understood what it was like for him, having been raised poor and thus incorporating values that focus on self-reliance and so abhorring greed. She grasped much more now the serious changes William had to go through and accept about himself and their future life together.

Julia glanced at her husband as he stood to begin preparing the food-cart to return to the kitchen. She gave him a smile. It only grew bigger when he returned it. As they cleared away the dishes, she imagined Rebecca James and marveled at all the suffering she and her Negro ancestors had had to endure, and still would have to endure in the future, for no other reason than because the color of their skin differed from that of those with more power than them.

A repulsive image flashed through her mind, one that mixed a childhood memory with her now renewed enlightenment to the injustices and hopelessness faced by the less powerful in the world. In the real memory her cousin, Jonathan, had been a boy, but in the flash she saw him as she pictured him to be now, as a wealthy meatpacking magnate. But he was gigantic. And under his drinking glass, he had captured an insect. At first, it was a "daddy long-legs" spider; now that she was well-studied in biology she knew it to be from the genus Pholcidae, but when she looked closer it turned out to be Ms. James' suitor, Nate Desmond. Her ghoulish cousin lifted the glass and picked the man up by an arm, leaving him dangling helplessly in the breeze. Mr. Desmond punched and kicked at the giant franticly with his free limbs. Julia could see that he was yelling, screaming, yet there was no sound, save for the evil laugh of the domineering bully Mr. Jonathan Ogden Armour. Julia shook her head, drawing William's attention, as she imagined Jonathon taking hold of one of the man's legs, and then pulling. He would pull the leg off! And it would twitch around! And then he would pull off another, reveling in the suffering he was causing! Julia remembered the revolting sight of it – when it had been a spider. She refused to see it, could not bear to imagine it, when it was a man…

"Are you alright?" William asked, graciously pulling her back to reality.

Julia wrinkled up a corner of her mouth, admitting she was not. "It is just so unfair… So un-human!" she insisted, her voice taking on that little squeakiness William so loved when her emotions got the best of her.

William walked close to her, took a lock of her hair in his fingers. "Fighting for the oppressed everywhere, hmm, doctor," he said, then giving her a kiss on the cheek. His lips found her ear, "I love that about you," he whispered before his lips kissed and teased down her neck.

"You do detective?" Julia responded, finding his continued kissing and delectable physical closeness stirred her insides in such a delightful way. "We will have to recruit some of our Negro sisters into our movement," her brain reasoned, sending the signal to her mouth. Then it all went to mush and she pulled him close and delved in deeply for a hearty kiss, shaking both of them to the core. They would pull it back, eventually, remembering the baby and Isaac's recommendations, eventually. But for now they swam and melted in the tempting, scrumptious feelings of shared sexual yearning.

Back of the Yards, Chicago

Ducked down behind a garbage bin, heart pounding and out of breath, Jurgis' anger fumed, threatening to rupture his self-control. He had followed his wife to this building, had watched as his Ona was escorted inside by that lecherous Miss Henderson, the very same supervisor that had threatened to fire Ona for being late the day after they had married. As he had stayed low, hidden, he saw a man arrive minutes later. He was sure it was the canning site manager – Connor. Jurgis' fingers twisted and wrung his hat into a mess. His worst fears were coming true – she was mixed up in this whole sordid business! Tears threatened to form and his blood pumped hot, surging a call to violence in his veins. She was prostituting herself, his wife, his Ona, his Antanas' mother. Jurgis curled into a ball, sickened with the thoughts.

The door opened! It was Ona … and Connor! He would stand up … He would rush over … He would beat the man silly! But then, they stepped into a cab. It pulled away so quickly, the snap of the whip punishing Jurgis' ears and his heart like a bullet. He just stood there helpless and furious … and heartbroken. He had to wonder, how long had she been? … He could not bear to even think it. He prayed it was for less than three months, "Please lord, let the baby at least be mine," he begged.

He decided to go home. Up until now his pride had stopped him from taking help from the union during the strike. But he was marching there now with every intention of getting whatever he needed to convince Ona to stop! The union had made a fund, before the strike, to build up stocks of food for the long siege. He had helped, and now he needed help.

When Jurgis arrived at the pub, most of the strikers were sitting in the back. They were huddled and he knew they were talking union business. He pulled a chair close and listened in.

"The creeps started buildin' em the very first night. They's packed nearly a thousand men in those "scab hatcheries." The bunks are four tiers up!" a young, strong man declared. Jurgis recognized him. He used to work on the killing field with him, before Jurgis had gotten injured.

An older man tapped the table. Shaking his head in disgust he said, "Darn smart, housin' them Negroes right inside the stockyard where we can't get at em comin' or goin' to work."

"You know I's got a copper friend tells me them stinkin' places are full of wickedness. The bosses tell their managers to let those scabs do whatever they want – gamble, even bettin' on boxin' matches to the death. And they even bring em stuff, like women and sinful music," another fellow added.

Jurgis' head spun with the pain of it, the dreadful, nauseating sound of the high-pitched ringing drowning out all sound, and the implosion of the darkness staggering him. "Could that be what Connor was doing with his Ona!?" the thought floored him.

Winnipeg, Canada: Thomas Street Brothel

Ieva Baltavesky laid in the tiny bed, their three year-old son Matis curled up asleep in an open drawer of the dresser. He was so skinny now, so weak, he weighed less than the clothes she would have put in the drawer instead. She had still not been able to afford a doctor. She reached over to a small table at the side of the bed and removed a seedy envelope from under it. Inside, it held much – her wedding ring, Adomas' picture, his letters … but the money was already gone. Tears filled her eyes as she held the picture. They had been so much in love – a rare and special love, such a love that poets wrote of. Adomas would have died if he knew what her life had become. She could not tell him even if she had wished to do so, for his letters never had a return address. She feared he slept on the streets in the Stockyards of Toronto's east end.

Ieva looked to the door. Under it she could see the light in the hallway was still on. "Jimmy could bring a 'customer,' if I'm lucky," she thought finding the idea was mixed with a skin-crawling rebellion inside of her. She let hope win and she opened Adomas' latest letter. "I have hit on some luck. There is more money on the way – we'll be rolling in it!" he had said. My God she hoped it would be enough to set up somewhere else before he got back so he would never know what she had done. But nothing was as important as getting help for Matis. Ieva put the letter and photo back inside and re-hid the envelope. She fiddled with the wedding ring on her finger – she would need to remove it if she heard Jimmy in the hall. Her son barely made a sound as she lifted him from the drawer and brought him to the bed. "Sleep my angel," she whispered, "Only good dreams."

Chicago, Everleigh Gentlemen's Club

Their table isolated, intentionally, Brown, Armour and Durham shared a fancy meal while carrying on their private discussion about business. Tactfully, the conversation topics would change whenever the waiter or one of the showgirls approached, but for the most part they were left undisturbed.

Durham took a deep breath and then said, "I believe our first order of business must be the sabotage."

"Bodkin tells me one of his beat cops got word that Clegg was asking around. Did you call him in Jonathan?" Brown asked.

Armour hid it well, his anger. He had heard the same thing and personally planned to strangle the little weasel the first chance he got. (No! He had not called on Mr. Clegg to look into the removal of ice from the trains! His own man had guaranteed him it would be taken care of and as far as he was concerned, Clegg would only get in the way. And yet, he needed to appear to be in control). Armour took a sip of wine. After he placed it back down on the table he said, "I thought it best."

Brown added, "I would have thought we would have heard something from our railway guards…"

Armour's tone hinged with threat, "All in good time. I have every faith in my man, gentlemen. This problem will be resolved, and soon. Now," he said, picking up his fork, signaling a change in subject, "Have either of you gentlemen gotten anywhere with getting the banks to honor the checks written to our strikebreakers? It has caused some trouble… as you know quite well, Durham, for you have suffered a similar problem. Having hundreds of strikebreakers walk off the job only encourages the strikers."

"The best solution I have come up with is having my manager take cash out of the bank to use for pay," Durham responded. "I have gotten nowhere with the banks. They sympathize with the strikers it seems," he said, "Probably meant to weaken us." The other men nodded in agreement.

Brown's face took on a wicked smile as he said, "And there are other ways to keep the strikebreakers happy, eh."

Durham leaned in closer. "The quarters I built are a mess, to be honest. All manner of indecent behavior. And my God the stink! I swear it is worse than when the pigs were in there," he whispered.

"One of my doctors said we have Smallpox… The man had no idea how outrageous such a suggestion was," Armour claimed. "You did a good job obtaining blank death certificates though, Brown. Well done. Unfortunately it seems I will be needing more," he added.

"As will I," Durham said.

Brown nodded, "It shall be done. Our mortician friends are keeping up surprisingly well," he concluded. Lifting a glass to the others he said, "To the power of money!"

Toronto: Stationhouse #4 (September 5, 1904)

Detective William Murdoch stood by the front desk of the stationhouse addressing four or five reporters. Normally, his mismatched suit jacket and trousers would have served as an indication that the man was not himself, but not today. His trousers had been ruined as a result of the dog-bite he had incurred while saving Constable Crabtree from said dog and apprehending a suspect.

"We approached the warehouse with the intent of trying to locate a suspect," the detective said, "A warrant was not necessary."

Leaning against a doorjamb in the back, Inspector Brackenreid watched on. He had already addressed the reporters, telling them that Crabtree would be fine. The constable had been taken to the hospital for some stitches on his arms was all. It seems that upon arriving at the warehouse, Murdoch had sent the constable around the back and soon heard the man calling out for help. Murdoch had been quite the hero, drawing the dog off of Crabtree who had been pinned to the ground by the attacking dog. The detective described pulling on the dog's tail and then after the beast took up chase, he had somehow tricked the dog into jumping in after him into a carriage, then going out the other side and rushing back around to close the first door as well, thus trapping the crazed animal inside. The man they had gone to the warehouse to search for had ended up being inside. He had sicked the dog on Crabtree and then had tried to escape, only to be captured by Murdoch as he returned to check on the injured constable. In the end the man had confessed to committing the murder. It really was an amazing story. "Sure to make the front page," he thought.

He turned to look at the backdoor, hearing it open and then close. Dr. Ogden marched up to him in a fury. "Uh-oh," the Inspector thought, "Murdoch's in trouble."

Her eyes fierce and fiery, she honed in on him. "Where is he, Inspector? I have every intention of clobbering him!" she exclaimed.

Before he had a chance to respond, she had spotted her husband. "Bloody hell, she's going to scream at him in front of the reporters!" the thought raced across his mind. "Doctor wait!" he whispered with a holler, stepping into her line of sight with her target. "Wait for the reporters to go at least," he suggested. Fortunately, the woman saw the sense in that, ceased her forward motion and blew out an exasperated breath.

She stood with the Inspector looking on, tapping her foot and riding the waves of gritting her teeth and fighting her every urge to pummel him and then calming herself down and reminding herself he seemed fine. Ultimately, her husband's fate depended on whether she was on an up or a down when the reporters concluded they had enough for their stories.

Within a few minutes the men closed up their notebooks and said their thanks. The Inspector had decided not to get in the middle of it, but still he felt his body twitch with the urge to help out his best man. He cleared his throat, drawing Murdoch's attention. He saw Murdoch turn, the man's face immediately registering with concern.

"William Henry Murdoch," Dr. Ogden's raised voice pierced the air, drawing all eyes.

"Julia!" her husband said. Startle subsided as he slumped his shoulders and then dropped his eyes away from hers for a moment. "I guess you heard," he sighed.

Her arms flung through the air and her curls dashed about her face. "Heard that you singlehandedly took on an attack dog!? Risking your life! Yes! I heard!" she yelled, her voice squeaking at first, then growing stronger.

It's funny how the mind works. William found himself remembering the two of them standing in nearly the exact same places, a mere ten years earlier, when he had returned from Bristol – a hero then too, credited with saving the Queen. She had been so pleased to see him, ran across the bullpen to him, dove into his arms…

He regretted it the moment he said it, "You seem upset."

"Oh boy," the Inspector said out loud.

Everyone in the stationhouse watched on as Julia tried to regain her composure. Her eyes dug fiercely into his. Her breathing was rapid. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The pause seemed long, and silent…

"Upset! You think I'm upset!?" she squeaked. "Truly amazing detective skills William," she went on sarcastically. She turned towards his office, swinging her arms wildly at her sides as she stomped away.

"Julia… It was George…" he rushed to explain, following behind her. "How is saving him different from saving the Queen?" he asked. "I would think you would be proud of what I did," he argued.

She turned around to face him so quickly that he just about crashed into her. They stood halted in his office doorway face-to-face. She spoke through gritted teeth, low but audible to all those who stood around holding their breath, "We weren't married then. You weren't my husband then! And I wasn't PREGNANT then!

The whole stationhouse gasped!

She turned again and they went into his office. The detective closed the door, and before he pulled the blinds closed, everyone could see that the doctor had found his tattered pants. She held them up in the air, the hole and shredded fabric in the rear clearly visible, "What if this had been your neck!?" all could overhear her yell.

"That's it. Shows over," the Inspector bellowed, dispersing the crowd, "Get back to work!" All those present shared looks, and moved towards their various tasks, still too shocked, and too worried about the Inspector's wrath to talk with anyone else about the detective and the doctor.

William dropped his voice low, his hostage training taking effect, "Julia, You're right. I'm sorry. I know you worry. And I try – I really do …"

Her face softened. She took a deep breath. She did worry, they had talked about it often, but it seemed so much worse now.

He stepped closer, coached himself to breathe, to move slowly, to be calm. William continued to try to reassure her. "I didn't go alone," he said, and then waited for her.

It was true, that was one of the ways he had tried to change, to lower the inherent risk in his job. "I know," she said.

"And truly Julia, when I heard George screaming for help…" he said with his eyes wide and desperate. He shook his head, opened his hands to show her his helplessness.

"I know," she said again. She took a deep breath… then looked down at his tattered pants in her hands. "Were you hurt badly?" she asked.

William saw an opportunity to lighten the mood. "It is hard for me to tell… I can't actually see the wound," a corner of his mouth curled as he said it.

"Let me see then," she yielded.

"Here? Now?" he asked, receiving a nod. There was no dignified way to do it, though he would try. He turned his back to her and undid his trousers. "It's a good thing I keep an extra suit here in case of emergencies," he said.

As he lowered the trousers, Julia could see that his underwear had been ripped up too. There was blood. "Those too," the doctor ordered.

William lowered his underwear a few inches and then pulled down the side to reveal the cheek with the dog-bite. He heard her sigh. "What do you think doctor?" he asked.

"I think you won't be sitting down any time soon," she answered, humor coming through. "It doesn't seem to need stitches," she assessed as she pressed against the flesh around the wound.

"Good," he responded.

"It will bruise quite a lot. And the lacerations are deep enough that infection could be a problem," she said leaning down to better inspect the damage. "I can clean it up over in the morgue," she suggested. Her hands remained on his backside. She bent forward over him to whisper in his ear, "I suppose it's pretty good timing … with Dr. Tash's restrictions and all. It likely would have affected your ability to use these muscles … for our lovemaking, husband." She couldn't see his face but she knew he pulled up a side of his mouth, as if to scold her for her naughty comment, particularly while they were in his workplace.

"Ah yes," he said, "Poke at a man when he's down," prompting her to triumphantly giggle.

Julia stepped back and enjoyed the sight. "Quite an embarrassing spot," she commented. "Get it, embarr-ass-ing," she laughed, taking such glee in giving him a hard time. She was certain she would get plenty of opportunities to tease him with this particular injury.

Much to his wife's surprise, William responded with a joke of his own. "So, my punishment is to be that I am the BUT of all your jokes now, is it?" he replied as he stood and reached to pull up his underwear.

Julia helped him, lifting his underwear away from his skin. He stood and pulled up his mismatched trousers, his back still to her as he fastened them.

She stepped close behind him and slid her arms around his waist from behind. "I do suspect I will not be the only one partaking in that endeavor, husband," she whispered. Unfortunately, he was sure she was right.

Getting back to business, she asked, "Shall we go to the morgue together, or do you have some urgent business here to deal with first?" The question brought them both to consider what everyone had seen, what they had heard – not just their arguing, but her pregnancy as well.

"People will likely be somewhat shocked … with our news," she offered.

"Yes," William said, turning around to face her. He placed his hands on her upper arms and looked her in the eye. "I know this was not the way we wanted to tell them…" he said, wrinkling his face in apology.

Julia rolled her eyes. "Well… it is good news," she said with her voice rising revealing her excitement.

"Yes," he agreed. William remembered calling the whole stationhouse around and standing up on a chair to announce their engagement. He would do the same thing now!

All eyes turned to the detective's door as it opened, most quickly darting back to their tasks. The couple walked to the center of the bullpen and William pulled over a chair. Everyone had noticed, and they were already starting to head towards the couple when William yelled out from atop the chair, with a huge smile on his face, "Everyone gather round… Listen up! I have an announcement to make. Well, you might have already heard, but Dr. Ogden and I are going to be parents! Cheers burst up, filling the stationhouse with congratulations and joy. When William stepped down from the chair he experienced the slightest bit of deja-vu as Julia rushed into his arms and they shared a kiss, to a grand round of applause. It was even better than when he had saved the Queen!

################

Over breakfast the next morning they poured over the paper. The headline in the Toronto Gazette read, "Taking a Bite out of Crime."

"Clever," William said.

The story had made the front-page as the Inspector had predicted. Also on the front page was a story about the Meatpackers' Strike. The strike had been broken and the workers had lost. The paper said that the workers at Armour's plant had gotten a few concessions, largely because an activist woman named Jane Addams had met personally with the owner and convinced him to do so. Julia marveled at the social reformer being able to accomplish anything of the sort. She didn't tell William it was mostly because she knew Jonathan Ogden Armour so well, and he was not the type to give anything to anyone if he didn't have to.

Julia teased, "She must have given him quite a kick in the pants!" with a giggle.

He scowled, before joining in with her laughter, "Very funny, Julia. Very funny."

The End(of this chapter) – Pun intended ( ;