Arnold Imrie was of clear Scotch descent. And among his forebears had been those grim Covenanters to whom compromise was anathema. He had a strong body and a strong intellect, but stronger than both combined was the resistless overlord he called his conscience. Sydney Smith's aspersions upon the impenetrability of the Scotch skull are well known, though their justice may be questioned. But it is indisputable that nothing short of the heroic measures he recommended would suffice to separate Imrie from a resolve, once firmly made. Being human, he saw many things dimly, and some quite falsely. But as he saw he lived, and there was no power in the earth or out of it to make him evade or equivocate. Sometimes this sturdy candour made him noble: sometimes it made him tiresome: and once in a way it merely made him ridiculous. But though for long periods it might remain dormant, it was none the less the prime impetus in his life.
Judith's derision, her more or less obvious contempt, had wounded him more than he would have believed possible; and her touch, though light, had found spots that were sorer than he had suspected. Her calm disdain was like an acid, dissolving away the crust of unimportant occupation and meticulous conformity which had protected his ideals from the corruptive action of reality. He shivered, figuratively, at the revelation.
One of her mordant phrases was poignantly clear. Again and again it recurred to him, always with a question attached. He tried to dismiss it, and could not. She had called him "too much of a clergyman—not enough of a man." As he walked home, he analysed its meaning, and tried to disguise it in sophistries. But the intellectual honesty which was his at base, forbade. The meaning was far too manifest. And at intervals through the week, he strove to force his thoughts into an effective answer. But always there was failure at the end.
Of course such charges as she had made to him were not new. The literature of the day was full of them. But hitherto he had been able to keep his defences intact. When his own logic failed him, there was always the logic of his schooling and of his contemporaries upon which to fall back. But for such heresies to spring from Judith—that was treachery within the gates. He resented it bitterly, and he was appalled as the weapons so strong in the past now crumpled in his hands.
A whisper grew louder and louder in his soul, a question sounded more and more relentlessly. And when it would brook no more delay, reluctantly, sick at heart, and filled with fear at the outcome, he hauled down his flag of truce and gave the devil battle.
It was well after midnight of Saturday when the last gun was fired, and the struggle was over. With lips compressed, and brow furrowed, and with his tongue parched by the pipes he had smoked, Imrie capitulated.
On the morrow he would put his life to the test.
But when he stood in the pulpit and faced his congregation, awaiting him with courteous expectancy, as it had waited so often, his heart well-nigh failed him. Slowly he let his eyes rove over the throng, brilliant in costume, exuding the indefinable aroma of power and luxury. These men and women of St. Viateur's were the cream of the community. It was no small thing to be the shepherd of such a flock. The silence grew oppressive, while he hesitated. He seemed to look for someone. Finally he found what he sought. His face hardened and his teeth clicked so sharply that those in the pews near at hand could almost hear the sound. Judith was in a seat well back in the church. Good was beside her. Imrie's task had suddenly become far harder, yet even more imperative. He hesitated no longer.
He cleared his throat and his eyes wandered, raptly, as of old, into the dim vastness of the rafters. "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword," he said impressively. "Text taken from the Gospel according to St. Matthew, tenth chapter, thirty-fourth verse."
He paused at that point, as he had paused Sundays without end, and the congregation, as if at a signal, seemed to settle back and make itself resignedly comfortable against the duty it faced. There was a subdued but general coughing, and the whispering rustle of silks: then a calm hush.
But the preacher had not uttered a dozen words before the expectant quiet changed sensibly. It was not his words which caused the change, but his tone. And it was not that his tone was dramatic, but that it was not. The very fact that he spoke with a complete freedom from anything histrionic presented a contrast which amazed.
But as the significance of the lesson he was drawing from the text became clear to them, astonishment gave place to an almost ominous, certainly an unsympathetic, attention.
Never in his career had he had more heedful listeners. As if magically, the news seemed to have percolated to the most obtuse intelligences that grave matters were transpiring. Once or twice there was a sibilant inrush of breath from some auditor too dumfounded for control. But for the rest there was utter silence. There was not a rustle nor a cough. The congregation of St. Viateur's had changed its character. It was playing a different rôle. It was as if an epicure had bitten caviar and tasted quinine. It waited.
Meanwhile, the Reverend Arnold Imrie was recording his new-found belief that the peace of Christ was not a complacent acceptance of earthly misery, but a dynamic struggle against the few who dispossessed—or would dispossess—the many; that the Man of Sorrows was a rebel, seeking, not to bring men to heaven, but heaven to men; that he brought a sword, sharp-pointed for the blood of injustice, for which, injustice, terrified, crucified him; and he was asking, very simply but very clearly, whether the charge of heretics that time had brought about a change between preaching Christ and preaching dogma, was true.
He went calmly on, opening, though they never suspected it, the innermost chambers of his heart to them, taking them into his confidence as he had never before taken even himself. For the first time, he did not preach: it was rather a mutual inventory before the God they worshipped, a dispassionate analysis of the institutions they revered, to see if, since they had become idols, they had deteriorated or no.
Only once did his emotionless manner desert him. Then without euphemism, he lashed them for their luxuries, for the repletion of their bellies, for the ideals of the spirit that they had allowed to die of starvation. For a few minutes he waxed eloquent and bitter and cruel. With a crash of his fist on the pulpit rail he repeated the words, "let him take up his cross and follow me," and hammered home to them, with brutal logic and remorseless clarity, what they meant.
It was a new Jesus which he painted for them, in bold sharp strokes. The Lamb of God, the doe-eyed martyr to vicarious atonement, vanished, and in his place stood a virile battler for human rights.
The strongest sentiment in the minds of the listeners was one of bewilderment. They watched, with something approaching admiration, the portrait as it grew more vivid before their eyes, and a few even admitted in it a specious fidelity. But none could comprehend at all clearly the reason for their rector's complete and sudden estrangement from the conceptions which he had worshipped hitherto with an orthodoxy beyond suspicion.
And yet the explanation was profoundly simple. In the first place he had come away from his talk with Judith to study Scripture with new eyes. In words so familiar that he could quote them he had found new meaning. He had realised, with a shock, that always until then he had given a superficial acceptance to the interpretations of others, and in natural consequence he had set himself to the business of interpretation assisted by nothing but his own powers of logic and analysis. Once the new keystone was placed, the change in the entire arch was inevitable and immediate. He had only to secure a new postulate: the rest of the syllogism followed as a matter of course.
The second part of the explanation was simpler still. From the time that man emerged from his female origin, man has been doing things, both sublime and foolish, to win the regard of woman. In the little boy who jumps off a high place because a little girl "dared" him to jump, may be found the key to Imrie's puzzling transformation. Judith had dared him to be more man than clergyman. His eyes were fixed on her as he jumped.
There can be no doubt that he went further than he had intended when he entered the pulpit. But as speech clarifies thought, the very course of maintaining his new argument strengthened him in it, and his fears and hesitancies vanished. He left no doubt in other minds, as to his meaning, as he cleared away the doubts in his own.
Judith, listening in amazement with the rest, realised, as did few, how characteristic of him it all was. She felt that she could almost trace the steps which had brought him to this point. Her own attitude had played a large share, she felt certain. Her doubts had set up doubts in him. He had tried to dissipate them, and had failed. So far he was quite like other men. But then he had resolved to tell his congregation that he had failed. In that he was different. Other men would have waited longer, have hesitated and put off and pondered, some to the end of their lives. Not so with Imrie. A resolution once made was turned into action without delay, be the consequences what they might. The one outstanding distinction of his nature was his unfailing courage.
The whole procedure, involved and incomprehensible and distressing as she knew it must appear to most minds, was perfectly clear to her. She had put questions to him that he could not answer. So he had resolved to put them, without equivocation or delay, to his congregation. That to them these questions did not betoken honest doubt, but downright heresy, was no concern of his. They had to hear, and having heard, they had to decide what their significance was for him and for them, and for the relations between them. That he realised quite clearly that he was jeopardising his professional future, she did not for a moment doubt. But that realisation, she knew very well, would only confirm him the more strongly in his purpose.
Suddenly she realised that he was bringing his remarkable sermon to a close. His voice sank, becoming almost conversational, though it penetrated to the furthest corner of the church.
It was the closing plea of a lawyer before a jury of his peers. He had shown what he believed to be the fallacies in their relations to the Lord Jesus, and the fallacies in his own; he had shown the failure of the Church, which meant them as well as himself, to live up to its social significance; he had demonstrated with vivid brutality, the inconsistency between their professions of faith and their daily lives; he had humbled himself before his ideals and sought to make them do likewise; and now, very gently, he was asking for the verdict.
He paused for a moment before his last words, and swept the congregation with his eyes. They saw far more than was there to see. They saw his seminary days, when the world looked so simple and so enticing. They saw the early days of his charge of St. Viateur's, when the knowledge of actual achievement was not troubled by spiritual doubts. They saw the Sundays, innumerable, when his words, received by the great ones of the community with admiration and approval, had been followed by the little flatteries to which no human heart is immune. Then a lump rose in his throat, and his gaze came nearer. Something like tears came into his eyes as he surveyed these friends whom he was deliberately transforming into something perilously like enemies—for no reason save that he must. They would never understand—never. And yet he must go on—to the end if need be. That was his destiny.
Quietly he put his last question to them, "What are you going to do about it?" Then he closed his eyes for a moment, opened them to stare unseeing at judge and jury, sighed softly, and abruptly left the pulpit.
The answer was not long in coming. He knew that it would not be, and he dallied in the vestry, purposely. Judge Wolcott, kindly and genial, approached him with outstretched hand.
"Arnold, it was magnificent," he said, with a paternal clap on his shoulder, adding, in an undertone, though no one was near, "but I don't think I would repeat it."
"Why?" asked Imrie coldly.
The Judge tugged at his white beard nervously. Then he patted the younger man again with what seemed like a somewhat exaggerated friendliness.
"Oh, come now, Arnold, don't get on your high horse. You know what I mean. That sort of thing's all right—occasionally. But it's juvenile...."
"Juvenile?"
"Well, perhaps not that. But it's young, sophomoric, journalistic, sentimental—you understand, I'm sure."
"Quite."
"We have some pretty conservative members here, you know. As laymen go, they're powerful." He stopped and watched Imrie, waiting for the effect of his words to sink in. "For a young man, practically at the outset of his career, to offend them—would be unwise."
Imrie's coldness dissolved, and he smiled broadly.
"We know each other too well to fence, Judge. Let's be frank with each other."
"But I am frank," cried the older man.
"Not entirely. You're trying to reprimand me without seeming to do it."
"Not at all. I'm merely—ah—advising you."
"I see. And if I don't choose to heed the—ah—advice ... what then?"
The judge lifted his finely manicured fingers and shrugged his shoulders. "You're not a boy, Arnold. You have eyes—and ears."
Imrie laughed again, but not pleasantly.
"Is this official?"
"I don't understand."
"I mean, are you talking to me as a friend—or as a vestryman?"
"My dear boy, the vestrymen are your friends."
"Please don't quibble. There's the same dual personality in you that there is in me talking among friends and preaching in this pulpit. Aren't you preparing me now—as a friend—for what you might have to say—as a vestryman?"
"If you insist—yes," the Judge admitted, rather testily. It nettled him to be put on the defensive, his subtleness openly contemned.
"In other words," Imrie rose from his chair and walked over to the window, where he paused for a moment. "In other words, you bear unofficial orders."
"Not orders."
"Advice then—advice for me to preach what the people want—and let what they need go hang?"
"Arnold—my dear boy," cried the Judge pacifically, following him to the window. But Imrie edged away.
"As the Spanish poet put it, 'Since the public pay 'tis just, methinks, we by their compass steer, and write the nonsense that they love to hear';" he murmured gently.
"Really, I—" the Judge was at a loss for words. He had anticipated no such reception as this.
Imrie's voice changed and his lips narrowed.
"You may tell the—er—powerful laymen—Judge Wolcott, that I take my orders in these matters from my conscience, not from them."
The older man stared at him in amazement.
"Are you crazy?" he demanded, and a light flickered in his own eyes.
"Obviously," said Imrie shortly.
"Do you realise what this means?"
"Perfectly."
"Are you prepared to abide by the consequences?" That the Judge was thoroughly aroused was plain. He did not like to have subordinates treat him in such fashion, and any notion that Imrie was not a subordinate was of course only a polite fiction. It was incredible that this young fool should think it anything else.
"My resignation will be in your hands this afternoon," said Imrie quietly.
"Come, Arnold my lad," cried the Judge, honestly dismayed by the course their conversation had taken. "You mustn't be offended—really you mustn't. Let's get together and discuss this like men. We...."
"There is nothing to discuss," said Imrie with a shortness which brooked no further opening. "You have stated your case with perfect clearness. I hope I have stated mine equally so. I think that ends it."
"My dear young friend," said the older man with an effort at patience which only partially concealed his increasing exasperation. "I had no intention of stirring up all this excitement. I come to you with a friendly word of advice and you treat me like—like a policeman! Egad, one would think I was your worst enemy."
"I'm sorry—really—I...."
"Then forget it. Come—we'll take a stroll and talk about the weather. There's a good fellow. No sense in letting a little difference of opinion make us lose our tempers."
But behind the Judge's conciliatory words was a secret resolve merely to wait for a more propitious moment and then to reopen the discussion—with a tact, of course, acquired by experience. So, after a desultory discourse, in which he touched upon a number of obviously unimportant matters, and during which the younger man was uniformly silent, he renewed his circuitous attack. He tried very hard to be calm and judicial, but Imrie's taciturn antagonism quite overthrew his poise. And when the clergyman remained obdurate to all his subtlest questions and cajoleries and indisputable logic, the Judge lost his temper.
"You're an obstinate ass," he almost shouted.
"There's no doubt of it," said Imrie quietly. There was of course nothing more to be said after that, so they parted, the Judge to spread the news of the incredible stubbornness of the clergyman, and Imrie to a miserable walk, alone.
He was wretched, of course. He knew perfectly well what the outcome of his folly might be. But counteracting his regret at that, was a glorious feeling of achievement, of having conquered the devil in a pitched battle, and of having emerged with no stain on his shield. To all the world,Don Quixote, slaying windmills, was an "obstinate ass," but toDon Quixotehe was a hero. Imrie's feelings, as he battled with the wind, were a curious complex of dejection and triumph.
When he returned to his rooms, he found a message from Judith, insisting upon his presence at supper that evening. For a little he debated the acceptance of the invitation. He felt reluctant at facing her. He wondered what she would think of him. He feared that she might doubt his sincerity. But he also had a powerful curiosity as to what she would say, and her verdict was of more importance to him than that of all the vestries in the land. He decided to go.
She greeted him with greater enthusiasm than she had ever before manifested toward him.
"It was wonderful, Arnold, wonderful. I never guessed it was in you. I can't tell you how proud I was of you. It was a splendid sermon—it was splendid courage. It was—if only I had the words...."
"You don't need words," he said softly, taking her hands into his, and looking tenderly into her eyes.
She continued to pour oil on his troubled soul, but she withdrew her hands, and not again did she allow herself to come so close to him. He felt vaguely disappointed, even in the midst of her praise.
"I am so humiliated for what I said to you last week," she cried.
"It was what made—this," he said simply.
Suddenly her gaze went beyond him, and he followed it to the doorway. His face clouded. A gust of annoyance swept him for Judith, for this trick she had played him. It was unfair of her thus to force him to meet a man she knew he detested. But his irritation changed to surprise, when Good, with his long awkward stride, hurried toward him, and seized his hand.
"Mr. Imrie," he said genuinely, "I was in your church this morning. I want to tell you that that was one of the biggest things I ever saw. My congratulations probably don't mean much to you, but they're yours without a shadow of a reservation. That was the noblest sermon I ever heard."
The man's enthusiasm was so deep and so obviously sincere that Imrie's instinctive antipathy was banished. After all, he told himself on reflection, his dislike for Good was based on his antagonism for the smug hypocrisy, the senseless irreligion that he had himself attacked only that morning. In a way they were brothers in a common cause. It was with a very different feeling than he had expected that he accepted the tall man's congratulations and with the utmost sincerity that he thanked him.
Supper proved a gay function. Judith was at her happiest, and Good's anecdotes followed one another in merry succession. Imrie found himself insensibly warming to the man he had disliked so intensely, and rather grateful than otherwise to Judith for having arranged so pleasant a meeting.
But when the meal was finished and they were in the library with their coffee, mirth seemed to leave the gathering, and a certain constraint fell upon them all. Each of the men wanted to talk to Judith of matters which were too intimate to share with the other. Their remarks diminished rapidly in frequency and extent, and presently there was complete silence. It was necessary for Judith to break it. She thought it best to get to the heart of things immediately. She addressed herself first to Good.
"Shall I tell him what we have done?" she asked, as if not quite sure of herself. The tall man nodded, not very enthusiastically, it seemed to Imrie.
"Well...." Again she hesitated. "I suppose it's best to break the news without any preliminaries?" Good nodded his assent.
"Still, it's soverysurprising—however, the fact is ... we've bought a newspaper—The Dispatch!"
"Yes?" Imrie refused to show any surprise at all. Obviously he thought it was some subtle jest they were playing upon him.
"You don't understand," cried Judith, "I'm the owner of a newspaper."
"Well—what for?"
"To tell the truth," she said solemnly.
Imrie smiled indulgently. "That's praiseworthy, I'm sure," he said ironically.
That was too much for Good. Obviously the clergyman did not understand. He must be made to understand. His timidity slipped from him and he plunged into an explanation of the great plans they were making.
Imrie listened attentively, and as he caught the significance of the idea his manner changed from scepticism to something approaching enthusiasm. Then his face slowly hardened and a semblance of a sneer formed on his lips.
"Telling the truth may get you into trouble," he said half to himself.
"Of course," cried Good, "it not only may—it's certain to."
Imrie turned to Judith. "Are you as optimistic as Mr. Good?"
Her lips narrowed ever so slightly and a faint suggestion of a gleam came into her eyes. Then she shrugged her shoulders and laughed lightly. "If trouble comes—I shall be ready."
"But you're not sure that it will come?"
"I'm not experienced in such things. Were you sure of trouble when you delivered your sermon this morning?"
"Quite."
"Did it come?"
"It did."
Imrie smiled pleasantly enough but the bitterness of his tone was not lost on Judith.
"Arnold—what do you mean—what trouble?"
"What would you expect? I have resigned."
"The devil!" cried Good.
Judith's amazement was not feigned. It struck Imrie that it would have been more pleasant to him had she shown less astonishment at the course he had taken. "But it isn't final?" she cried.
"As far as I am concerned, it is. It is not at all unlikely that the vestry will find it final too." More than ever Imrie resented the presence of Good. He wanted to explain to Judith the part she had played in his resolution. That made him tell the story of his interview with Judge Wolcott very perfunctorily, and dismiss the subject as quickly as he could.
But Good was not easily put off, although Judith seemed to sense the purpose in his reticence. "What will you do if you resign?" he asked bluntly.
"Not 'if,'" said Imrie coldly, "I have already resigned."
Good ignored the snub. "What'll you do next?" he persisted.
"I have no idea," said Imrie, turning away. A moment later he rose to leave.
Good eyed him quizzically as they shook hands, and smiled, half wistfully, half amusedly. "You don't understand me, Mr. Imrie," he said with characteristic candour; "you don't think I understand. I'm older than you. I have been through things. Some day—perhaps—oh, well, we'll wait for the day, won't we?"
Imrie was puzzled. He was vaguely grateful, too, though he could find no words to express his gratitude. He stared perplexedly at Good, who had picked up a magazine and appeared deeply engrossed. Then he shrugged his shoulders helplessly and turned to go.
"Some time," he said to Judith, who had followed him to the door, "I should like to see you and tell you all about it." He looked at her longingly as he spoke. He seemed very tired, she thought.
"I understand," said Judith. He wondered if she really did.
A cold rain had been falling steadily all evening. The street lamps flickered dismally through the mist and the trees dripped soddenly. It was a fitting end, he thought, to the dreariest day he had ever known. The morning had seen the ruin of his flowering career, cut down by his own ruthless hand, under no compulsion save that of his own senseless conscience. And the evening, as a bitter crown to the day, had seen the salt of jealousy ground into his wounds. The contrast between himself standing on the brink of indecision, wandering aimlessly from disgust to humiliation, without satisfaction in the past or hope for the future; and that other man—who had no indecision, whose hopes were half realised—made his heart heavy within him.
It was a saddened and chaotic Imrie who plodded on through the lonely streets striving to regain some fragment of the philosophy which had deserted him so utterly.
A little after three o'clock on the afternoon of the day which first saw Judith Wynrod a newspaper proprietor, Good walked into the office ofThe Dispatchand asked to see Mr. Bassett, the managing editor.
"Will you be good enough to indicate the purpose of your visit on this slip," said the old pensioner at the information desk.
Good took the pencil held out to him and in a bold hand wrote: "Mr. Good wishes to see Mr. Bassett."
Cerberus smiled faintly, as if courtesy alone prevented him from totally ignoring so feeble a jest. "That will hardly suffice, Mr. Good. We have our rules, you know," he said firmly.
"Of course," admitted Good patiently. "But all rules have exceptions."
"We know none here, sir," said the old man pompously, while loungers in the ante-room smiled their enjoyment of the scene.
"But, my dear man," cried Good in exasperation, "I don't want to write him a letter. I want to talk to him. Will you take this in, or will I have to take it myself?" He seemed so capable of carrying out the latter alternative that after some further protestation the disgusted warder disappeared into the private offices.
Almost immediately he reappeared, a faint but plainly triumphant smile curling the corners of his lips.
"Mr. Bassett says—" he paused significantly. Then he added suavely, "He regrets that he is very busy and is unable to see you."
Good smiled. "That's old stuff," he said placidly, with his hand on the wicket. Without further parley he opened it and marched in.
A small man in his shirt sleeves, his thin lips grimly compressed, sat at a desk piled high in disorderly confusion, chewing an unlighted cigar. He did not look up as Good entered. But at the latter's deprecating cough he wheeled around in his chair and glared savagely.
"How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded.
"Through the doorway," replied Good mildly.
"That door says 'private'—and I'm busy."
Good sat down and leisurely drawing his pipe from his pocket filled it.
"I suppose you didn't see that sign outside?" inquired the small man sarcastically. "It said 'no smoking.'"
"That was outside," said Good shortly, without looking up. "I'm in now. But look here, Mr. Bassett," he continued with a quizzical smile, "don't irritate me. It ..."
"Don't irritate you?" Bassett stared blankly. "Who the ..."
"No—it might cost you your job."
The editor laughed harshly. "Hell, you must want a story suppressed."
"What makes you think so?"
"They all begin by threatening to get my scalp."
"Well, that's a bum guess this time." Good drew his chair up beside the desk and pushed a cleared place among the papers. "Now see here, Mr. Bassett, I have something to tell you."
"It's about time you began telling it," said Bassett dryly.
"I had to get you in a receptive mood before I could begin. Now I'm ready."
"Fire away." The editor lit his cigar and waved his hand resignedly.
"Quick is quick. To get to the point, this paper has changed hands."
The expression on Bassett's face changed immediately. "You mean—it's sold?"
"Just so."
"Who got it—the Le Gore crowd?" It was Bassett's profession always to be prepared for the unusual, but it was manifest from his knitted eyebrows and his nervous drumming on the desk that he was astonished.
"No, Miss Judith Wynrod."
"The millionaire kid!" cried Bassett. "What the devil does she want a newspaper for? Is she going to run it?"
"No," said Good calmly, "I am."
"You?Who in thunder areyou?"
Good leaned back and put his thumbs in his waistcoat. "I," he said without smiling, "am the crafty bunco-steerer. With misguided confidence the boss is going to let me run her paper for her. In future, my profane friend, you're going to take your orders from me."
"Do you know anything about newspapering?"
"Quite a bit, yes."
Bassett rose and clasping his hands behind his back, strode rapidly back and forth, without speaking, for several moments. Finally he stopped and shifting his cigar savagely from one side of his mouth to the other, stared vacantly into space.
"Well," he said slowly, "the first thing a new owner usually does is to fire the staff. I suppose I might as well begin getting ready and packing up my things. That's one of the beauties in this newspaper game. There's no monotony in your job."
Good laughed cheerfully. "I wouldn't be in any hurry about it," he said; "nobody's slated for the blue envelope yet."
"What's the policy going to be?" asked Bassett after a pause.
"None," said Good shortly.
"I don't get you."
"You will."
"The orders'll come from downstairs as usual, I suppose?"
Good betrayed himself for the first time during the interview. "No," he cried, bringing his fist down on the desk so that the papers fluttered, "that's one place they won't come from." Bassett laughed, not very pleasantly.
"Good stuff, old top. I love to hear that line of talk. It's inspiring. But they all start that way. I've been in the game a long time. I've pulled the Washington on tank town weeklies, trimmed boiler plate on all-home-print, and attained the eminence of space writer on county seat dailies. I've done time in the newspaper game from soup to nuts, and I've yet to see the sheet that isn't run from the business office."
"You've got something to live for then, haven't you?" said Good sweetly.
"I've always said that there weren't any surprises in a newspaper man's life," continued Bassett thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm wrong."
"Life's full of surprises. That's what makes it interesting. But that butters no turnips. I didn't come here to give you some new ideas about life. What I want is for you to get your staff together in the city room, say about five o'clock, for fifteen minutes. I want to talk to the boys. Can you arrange it?"
"I guess the world won't stop moving."
"All right. See you later." Good put his hand on the door.
"Say," said Bassett, sharply biting his lip, "have you been stringing me?"
Good laughed. "Call up John Baker, Miss Wynrod's lawyer, and get it straight. Don't be so suspicious."
"That's my business," said Bassett, sourly. As the door closed on his strange visitor, he sighed heavily. "It's a great business ... sold up the river—damned slave!" Then he sighed again and fell to sharpening a pencil.
Promptly at five Good returned. "Got them all here?" he demanded.
"Nearly all."
"That's fine. Let's break the news."
Bassett led the way to the city room, and with a clap of his hands achieved silence. "Boys," he said in a tone which was curiously unfamiliar to them, "you probably all know by now, being good news-hounds, that the paper has been sold. Mr. Brent Good, the new managing editor, wishes to say a few words."
Good rose and stood looking thoughtfully at the crowd for a moment before he spoke.
"Gentlemen, the habit of a lifetime is hard to break. Mr. Bassett proves it by the way he's coloured the facts. I'm not to be managing editor. Mr. Bassett will continue in that capacity as long as his editing and managing seems to be satisfactory. I am merely to be the personal representative of the owner of the paper. Now I have one or two things to say to you.
"To begin with, I want to say that nobody is going to get fired, with the possible exception of several men from the advertising department, the reason for which will appear later. The first question that Mr. Bassett put to me was about the policy of the new paper, and I replied that there wouldn't be any policy. All we have is a purpose, and that purpose is, in one single word, to tell all the truth all the time.
"We haven't any axes to grind. And there's only one boss. For the first time in your lives, I guess, you can write the truth without being afraid of stepping on somebody's toes. From now on, the business office gives no orders. And if the advertising department can't sell space without editorial influence thrown in, then we'll get a new advertising department or do without advertising. Instead of looking at every story with your mind on 'who will it hurt,' from now on I want you to look at every story with your mind on 'who will it help—orwhat.' You boys have a chance to run the kind of a newspaper that every newspaper man wants to run. It's up to you to make it or break it." Good's voice broke a little and he turned away. There was silence for a moment. Then a cheer shook the room. When it subsided, Bassett's dry voice was heard.
"Kindly don't overlook the fact, gentlemen, that we put the paper to bed to-night as usual. You can celebrate when that's done." Then he turned to Good.
"Come back in my office, will you, Mr. Good. There are a few questions I want to ask you."
"Cut out the 'Mister,' Bassett. I'm just one of the staff. I don't own anything, you know."
"That goes with me," said Bassett, "but look out I don't call you something worse. I've got a bad temper."
"Well," laughed Good, "I'm bigger than you." They went into Bassett's private office.
"What I want to get at," said the latter perplexedly, after they were seated, "is what line of thought you intend to follow. What angles do you mean to push?"
"You don't understand," said Good patiently, "all we want is the truth."
"Oh, fiddlesticks," cried Bassett impatiently. "That's fine for a rights-of-man declaration, but we're running a newspaper. You've got to have balance. What's true and interesting and desirable to one class of people isn't to another. What kind of people do you intend to cater to?"
"I see," said Good. He was silent for a moment. "I guess we want to print," he said finally, "what's true tomostpeople. Anything that gives the greatest good to the greatest number, ought to be our field."
"That's what I'm getting at. Now look at this." The managing editor fumbled in his desk and produced a mass of paper. "You probably know that the girls in the department stores are trying to stage a strike. It doesn't amount to much—yet—but the police have pulled some pretty raw work. Now from the girls' standpoint this stuff ought to get publicity. But from the standpoint of those who own the newspapers it shouldn't—and it hasn't had a line except inThe World, which, of course, only goes to the working people. Incidentally,The Worldhas been running some pretty good sob-stuff lately."
"Yes," said Good quietly, "I wrote it."
Bassett looked up quickly. "Oh—are you one of that socialist outfit?"
"No more socialist than you are plutocrat. I'm just a newspaper man—like yourself."
"Conscienceless, eh?"
"Consciences are expensive."
"Yes," said Bassett pensively, "most of us have to let the little darlings starve to death. I bet if we slipped into the next life with a murderer and a thief, St. Peter'd give 'em both a golden harp and ..."
"Oh, cheer up," laughed Good, "let's not worry about preferred positions in the next edition. We've got plenty to do with this one."
"Well, then," said the small man, "how about playing up this working girl stuff as a starter on the new idea? That ought to appeal to you."
"I'm afraid you don't quite understand," explained Good patiently. "This isn't going to be an organ of the working classes."
"That's all right, too, but in your talk out there to the boys you said you were going to print all the truth all the time. Well, this is true and people certainly ought to know about it. Those girls are getting a hell of a rotten deal. What about it?"
Good was silent. "Frankly, I don't know," he murmured.
"I know what you're thinking," said Bassett with a suggestion of a sneer. "We're carrying full pages for Corey's and the rest. But I thought you weren't going to take orders from the business office."
"We're not," said Good. "But we have to take our orders from Miss Wynrod."
"That's right," agreed Bassett. "I hadn't thought of that. Well, why don't you put it up to her?"
"By Jove," cried Good, "I will! I'll do just that. You get your stuff together. I'll see her to-night and get her O.K.—if I can."
"Here's a suggestion," said the managing editor; "it may help to get her interested. The girls are going to hold a meeting out on Dempsey Street. Why don't you take Miss Wynrod out there and let her see for herself? If she's any kind of a girl she'll hear some yarns that'll wilt her collar, I'll bet."
Good was thoughtful. "That's not a bad idea. I'll see what I can do." He turned to go. Then he looked back from the doorway. "By the way, Bassett, I forgot to tell you—Miss Wynrod has a young brother. He's been a waster so far, but I think he's got some good stuff in him. Anyway, he's coming into the paper too. Of course he doesn't know anything about newspapers—he doesn't know anything about anything—but he can learn. I thought it would be best to start him in the business office. What do you think?"
"That's the most important place to him," said Bassett sourly. "Keep him out of this end of it, for the love of Mike! Jenkins loves cubs; I don't."
"I think you're right; anyway we'll start him with Jenkins. And I'll let you hear from me to-night in plenty of time about this story."
"The bull-dog closes at eleven."
"I'll let you know by ten."
As Good ate his frugal dinner in a cheap restaurant, he debated seriously as to the best method of attaining his end. If he went straight to Judith and boldly requested her acquiescence in the course planned, he felt quite confident of securing it. But that did not appear to him sufficient. Her sympathies, thus gained, would be superficial. To be of lasting value they must be spontaneous. Finally he took his resolution and went to the telephone.
"Miss Wynrod," he said immediately when she answered, "there is to be a meeting on the west side to-night that I'd like very much to have you attend. I am sure it will interest you. Will you come?" And when she hesitated momentarily he added, "I am quite sure you won't regret it." To his great delight she assented readily enough, and half an hour later he found himself in her limousine with her, bound for a section of the city that was probably as unfamiliar to her as the heart of China.
Briefly he explained the character of the meeting, but diplomatically he held back his real purpose in taking her to it. She was frankly interested, nevertheless, and plied him with questions regarding its circumstances and causes, to which he was not slow in making reply.
"If all these dreadful things are true, how does it happen that I have never heard about them? There has never been anything in the papers."
"No," he assented, smiling in triumph under cover of darkness, "there hasn't been anything in the papers. That is," he added, "not in any of the papers you would be likely to read.The Worldhas had some stuff." But before they had had time to discuss the question further the car had reached its destination. Good led the way to a place in the balcony where they not only had a good view of the platform but could see the crowd below as well.
A red-headed girl was playing a very much out-of-tune piano and playing it very badly. But over the music, and almost drowning it was the steady shuffle of feet, and a rising wave of whispers and laughter as the hall rapidly filled. The air was heavily odorous and the gas lights flared garishly, thrusting the stark shabbiness of the hall and its occupants into high relief. But all that was forgotten in the indefinable emotion which surcharged the atmosphere. Without knowing exactly why, Judith felt her throat tighten and her heart thrill. But it was an old story to Good and he spent his time surreptitiously watching the effect of the scene upon his companion.
Presently the speakers of the evening filed onto the platform, and one of them, stepping up to the table, rapped sharply with her gavel. She was a woman just approaching middle age, very plainly but neatly dressed, with a face not handsome, but so full of quiet determination as to make one look twice.
"That's Myra Horgan," whispered Good, "President of the Women's Trade Union League. She's a wonder."
Miss Horgan, with a few words, introduced the first speaker, one Casper, of the Building Trades Council. He was a little man with a beaming red face, and stiff, close-cropped white hair.
"When they talk about women and the right to vote," he began, surveying the audience with twinkling eyes, "I think of you and what fools you be. But you're no worse than unorganized men. Do they work us brick-layers and masons twelve hours a day, nights too? They do not. Do they pay us six dollars a week? They do not. Do they fire us for having opinions of our own? They do not. Do they treat us as human beings entitled to the same respect as themselves? They do, and why? Because we ain't one but many. If we deal with them as individuals they smash us as you'd smash a toothpick. But they can't deal with us as individuals. They've got to deal with us altogether. But one thing remember, my girls. It's a fine thing to have a union but a hard thing to get it. You've got to suffer. You've got to give up things. I guess you know that already. But you've got to keep at it. It's great when you have it, but it's hell getting it. And don't forget this. You've got to stick by the other fellow if the other fellow is going to stick to you. If one goes out, you've all got to go out, and stay out if you starve."
He sat down, wiping his brow carefully, amid a thunder of applause from the audience. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike him and he jumped up with hand uplifted. The crowd silenced at once. "I forgot to tell you the main thing for why I came here to-night," he said sheepishly. "I'm no orator, as you all can see. Your handsome young faces drove the thought clean out of my mind. But this I will say, I am here to-night to tell you that we of the Federation will back you to the limit with money and influence and all we've got. Go to it!" Again he sat down, amid a repeated burst of clapping and cheers.
"No," said Good. "He's no orator. But he's a big man. They'll get somewhere if they follow him."
Speaker after speaker followed one another in rapid succession, each with her message of fear, or hope, or encouragement. There was surprisingly little denunciation, thought Judith, of the powers against whom they were in revolt. All the speakers were too intent upon means and methods to waste breath in idle denunciation. She expressed her astonishment.
"Their feeling for their employers goes without saying," said Good shortly.
Suddenly Judith gave a little cry. "Why, there's Mrs. Dodson." A woman, inconspicuously dressed and well on in years, but with such a spirit of youth and kindliness in her face as to belie her grey hairs, had begun to speak. Her first words were the signal for such a storm of applause that she had to halt momentarily.
"What a favourite she is!" exclaimed Judith.
"She has cause to be," said Good. "These girls have no better friend."
"Isn't it strange," said Judith in amazement. "I've known her all my life. I had no idea she was so interested in this sort of thing."
Good smiled. "She doesn't talk much about it, does she?"
Mrs. Dodson, speaking with trained eloquence, was laying out a plan of campaign so bold in conception that Judith, acquainted only with the more obvious side of her life, was dumfounded.
"If the people who know her uptown could hear her now," she cried, "they'd be stupefied. They'd call her a traitor to her class."
"She is a paradox," admitted Good, "but I think this is her truest side." And the prolonged cheering which accompanied the conclusion of her words seemed to indicate that her auditors thought so too.
There was a little pause after Mrs. Dodson had finished, and the red-headed young person at the piano resumed her activities. But the delay was only momentary. A slender girl, plainly dressed, apparently not over nineteen years of age, with her arm in a sling, made her way to the front of the platform.
"I'm no speaker," she began in a low voice but which penetrated to the farthest part of the hall, "and there ain't many of you as knows me. I'm only a picket. I can't give you union backing like Mr. Casper, and I can't give you money like Mrs. Dodson, and I can't give you ideas like Miss Horgan. All I've got is my two feet and my two hands and my tongue—though my tongue ain't as good as my legs, as the cop that pinched me will tell you. But you've all been thinking and talking about what you was going to do. Now I want to tell you what's being done while you're talking. Look at this—" She pointed to the arm that was in the sling. "This is what the police do. The copper that twisted my arm gets his pay from the taxpayers, but he gets his orders from our bosses. I got this for talkin' to girls as they came out of the stores. I was lucky not to get anythin' worse, as some of the other girls can tell you. I want to tell you girls," she clenched her fist and her voice shrilled, "that the only way you'll get respect out of these capitalists is toforceit out of 'em, and a good many of you is goin' to get hurt in the job."
"How horrible!" exclaimed Judith softly. "Is that really true?"
"Yes," said Good, "it is. I happen to know the case. The doctors say that her arm will probably never be of much use to her again. A detective twisted her wrist for not moving on when she was ordered to. He claimed she kicked him."
"And I hope she did!" snapped Judith vindictively. Good smiled quizzically, but before he could say anything the girl on the platform had resumed speaking.
"I wish I could tell you what's in my mind," she said slowly. "I ain't no speaker, but this is the principal thing I want to say to you girls. If I can stick it out I guess you can. That's about all I've got to say." She turned and fled precipitately. There was not much handclapping after her exit, not because she had not aroused sympathy but because exaltation had given place to a grim determination better expressed in silence. There was a momentary pause in the proceedings. Then a girl stood up in the crowd.
"I want to tell you that that girl is right," she declared fiercely. "My sister was knocked down by a copper and kicked and broke one of her ribs. If you're going into this thing you want to go with your eyes open." As she sat down, another rose, and another and another, until half a dozen girls had given their experiences, each one of which brought a gasp of horror to Judith's lips.
"Why, this is dreadful," she cried. "I never dreamed ..."
But Good merely smiled to himself. "They've only told one side of it," he said. "There are things—much worse."
Judith shuddered understandingly but said nothing further until they were in the motor on the way home. "I never heard anything more terrible," she cried, "or more surprising. If people onlyknew, such things couldn't take place. Decent people wouldn't countenance such brutality."
"No," admitted Good, "but decent people don't know anything about it."
"And why don't they?" she demanded. "Why aren't they told? Why aren't theyforcedto know about it?"
"Would you suggest a house-to-house canvass?" he asked ironically.
"Don't be silly. Why don't the newspapers take it up?"
"It isn't news to them."
Then the obvious thought struck her. "Why," she laughed, "I almost forgot. We have a newspaper of our own. Why can't we tell the story those girls told, inThe Dispatch?"
"For the same reason that the other papers can't," he said softly.
"And what is that?"
"They don't dare."
"Don't dare? I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Who has the keenest interest in keeping wrist-twisting out of sight?"
"The police?"
"No. Who loses if the girls win? Who suffers if they organise, raise wages and improve conditions?"
"Their employers, I suppose."
"Just so. And who are their employers?"
"The department stores?"
"Well, then, isn't it perfectly clear? Who are the newspapers' heaviest advertisers?"
"Oh,—"
"Miss Wynrod," said Good seriously, "to champion the cause of those girls and to tell the truth about what they are suffering might costThe Dispatch—a great deal of money."
Judith was silent for a moment. "In other words, we are hired by the department stores to be neutral."
"Precisely," said Good.
"Suppose we snapped our fingers at them?"
"I've already told you what would happen."
"But I thought you wanted a free newspaper?"
"I did and do, Miss Wynrod."
"How many curious things I'm learning," said Judith. Then, with a shudder, she added, "What a dreadful neighbourhood this is. Did you ever see so many children?"
"Do children make neighbourhoods dreadful?" he asked sarcastically, nettled by her irrelevance. But she was silent, remaining so until they reached downtown.
"I think,—if you'll let me off atThe Dispatchoffice ..." said Good stiffly.
Mechanically she gave the order to the chauffeur but made no reply. He wondered what was going through her mind. Her silence seemed to indicate that his great dream had been shattered before it had been well launched. She had broken at the first pressure. He might have expected as much. Environment and training could not be so quickly counteracted. But none the less it was bitterly disappointing. He dreaded the word he would have to give to Bassett.
"Good night, Miss Wynrod," he said quietly as the car stopped and he got out. "I hope you found the evening not unprofitable."
"Mr. Good," said Judith slowly, looking at him steadily, "I want everybody who readsThe Dispatchto-morrow to read—about that girl and her broken arm. Do you understand?"
His eyes widened. "And you know the consequences?" he whispered huskily.
"I think you have made them quite clear."
"You have friends among the department store owners, Miss Wynrod."
Judith smiled, but it was a grim smile. "I think I can venture where Mrs. Dodson has ventured," she said. Good seized her hand and his voice trembled.
"I was afraid—for a moment, but—you're a wonder! Good night." His emotion communicated itself to her and she did not venture to say anything in reply. She merely shook his hand firmly and sank back in the cushions. He turned and sped for the office.
"Bassett," he said, with simulated indifference a minute later, "let's see that stuff you've got on the girls."
"You mean," cried Bassett, "you're going to run it?"
"Double leaded," said Good shortly. "Got any pictures?"
"Say," said Bassett, "I've got some stuff that would make dynamite look like lemon candy. We'll makeThe Worldlook like a gospel messenger. I'll make you a bet, Good."
"Yes?"
"I'll bet you a stein of imported Muenchen that there'll be hell let loose to-morrow in several advertising offices we know of."
"Why not ask me for it outright?" asked Good with a smile.
On the day set for the beginning of Roger Wynrod's business career, Good introduced him to the more important members of the staff, all of whom expressed their profound pleasure at making his acquaintance, and without further conversation departed to more pressing duties. Their indifference rather nettled him, but he consoled himself by ascribing it to the high pressure under which newspaper offices notoriously laboured. He was quite mollified, however, when he reached the door of the office he was to occupy, and found his name prominently engrossed upon it in letters of gilt. He was also much pleased with the furniture, particularly the desk, a tremendous affair of mahogany, filled with all manner of alluring receptacles. The office, he was gratified to note, while not large, appeared more or less private.
"Now then," said Good, "here's your shop. Get to work. I'll be around the building somewhere if you need me."
Jenkins, the Business Manager, had suggested, rather diffidently, that a good way to begin to work would be to acquire familiarity with the files of the paper. So, after making a cursory examination of his more material surroundings, he attacked the huge volumes which he found on his table, containing, he was sure, copies ofThe Dispatchfor at least a century back.
He pursued the task diligently enough, at first, but it was not long before his interest flagged. One issue seemed painfully like another. It was very quiet in the little room, and as he sat wearily fingering the dusty sheets he felt curiously isolated and futile. The conviction gradually settled upon him that business was hardly as entertaining as it had been described. By eleven o'clock his patience was exhausted. With a word or two, more vigorous than elegant, he swept the bulky tomes upon the floor, and went in search of Jenkins.
The Business Manager ran his hand through his hair helplessly when Roger stated his grievance.
"I've been awful busy, Mr. Wynrod," he said apologetically. "If you'll only be patient. Just a day or two—rushed to death just now, don't you know."
"In a day or two?" cried Roger. "Good Lord, man—twohourshave been too much for me. Something's simply got to happen or I'll go nutty!"
Jenkins laughed, though not very mirthfully. Inwardly he was a seething cauldron of wrath at the fate which had afflicted him with so useless an appendage as Mr. Wynrod. He had been harassed enough by the change in ownership, without that.
But fate has a queer way of settling knotty problems very suddenly and very surprisingly. As Jenkins laughed and cursed behind the laugh, a boy put a card on his desk.
"Maybe Good ... he might have something ..." he said to Roger abstractedly, as he picked up the card. "Ask Mr. Good to step down here," he called after the retreating boy. "Awful rush these days," he murmured.
Suddenly his whole manner and expression changed completely. His resigned annoyance was transformed into patent excitement. He fingered the card nervously for a moment. Then he looked up at Roger, his brows knitted.
"Would you mind excusing me for just a moment, Mr. Wynrod? There's a gentleman here to see me ... very important...."
Roger resisted an impulse to ask who the gentleman might be who had created such manifest consternation, and turned to leave. But as he put his hand to the door, it opened, and Good entered.
"Hello," said the tall man, "making trouble around here already? What's the...?"
Before he could finish, Jenkins had him by the arm and was drawing him toward the window, whispering excitedly. Roger was as effectually excluded from the conversation as if he had not existed. As he watched the animated gestures of the Business Manager the strange thought struck him that he himself was the subject of the conference. His suspicions were confirmed when Good whistled softly, and, turning suddenly, intimated, in a voice more authoritative than apologetic, that his prompt withdrawal would be appreciated. Roger, deeply offended, was about to comply, when the door opened again, and a man stood on the threshold, twirling his mustache. Jenkins rushed forward to greet him.
"Oh, Mr. Faxon," he cried, "how are you? Glad to see you. Sit down, won't you? I ..."
Faxon ignored the proffered chair. "Hello, Roger," he said abruptly, "the boy said you were here. Thought I'd butt in."
"Hello, Joe," said Roger, striving to understand the tense atmosphere which seemed to pervade the room. "I'm just bound for my office. Come on up." He noticed with surprise that Jenkins frowned and shook his head savagely at the invitation. "Come on, Joe," he repeated, resentful at Jenkins' behaviour.
But as he put his hand on the doorknob, Good rushed into the breach. "One moment, if you please, Mr. Faxon," he said smoothly. "Mr. Wynrod is hardly familiar enough yet with things here to be of use to you in—er—matters of business."
Faxon wheeled sharply and stared as if he had not before realised the tall man's presence. "You'll doubtless leave that to me to discover, won't you?" he inquired with studied insolence. Abruptly he turned again to Roger. "Now then, may I see you—alone?"
Roger's eyes wandered from one to the other helplessly. But before he could speak, Good came to the fore again. His jaw was set firmly and his eyes were cold.
"See here, Mr. Faxon," he said, with characteristic disdain of subtlety, "let's not mince matters. Jenkins and I know perfectly well what you're here for. Wynrod doesn't. I'd suggest that we talk things over together."
"Thanks awfully for the advice," snapped Faxon sarcastically. "But I'm not here to see you or Mr. Jenkins. I'm here to see Mr. Wynrod. And I'm here to see him privately—you hear—privately. If such a visit is not contrary to the rules of the office, or if Mr. Wynrod is allowed to decide such matters for himself...."
Good had kept his gaze fastened on Roger as Faxon spoke, and the flood of colour in the young man's face at the latter's innuendo, had not been lost on him. "You need say no more, Mr. Faxon," he interrupted suddenly. Then he turned to Roger. "Wynrod," he said slowly, as if measuring his words, "you know, I believe, who's boss of this paper. Act accordingly." With a low bow to Faxon and a nod to Jenkins, who followed him, he left the room.
"If you know who's boss," said Faxon with a sneer as the door closed, "they apparently don't."
"Appearances are frequently deceiving," said Roger shortly.
"I hope so," snapped Faxon, his face hardening, as he drew a folded newspaper from his pocket and threw it on the desk. "Now then, my boy, I'd like to know the meaning of this?"
"Of what?" asked Roger quietly.
"Oh, don't stall."
"I'm not stalling."
"You mean to say you don't know?" demanded Faxon with honest astonishment.
"You haven't seen fit as yet to tell me."
"This sentimental poppycock you've been running inThe Dispatchabout our strike."
"And what about it?"
Faxon's manner changed and he smiled indulgently.
"You haven't been in business very long, Roger. There are some things you don't understand very clearly."
"Very probably."
"But there are some things, my boy, so elementary that a child could understand them."
"In other words," said Roger coldly, "even I."
"Yes," snapped Faxon brutally, "even you."
"Well, go on."
"In the paper this morning there is a mess of stuff, probably cooked up by that damn fool, Good, taking the side of those girls against us. Now what I want to know is the meaning of it."
"The meaning?"
"Yes. Are you on our side or on theirs?"
"My dear Faxon," said Roger, "you have already told me how little I know about such things. How can you expect me to answer such a question as that? Mr. Good has my sister's confidence and mine. If he ran this article, I believe it to be a good article. And anyway, who the hell are you to come here asking me questions like that?" The young man's temper had suddenly ignited. His face paled and his lips became set in a thin straight line.
Faxon raised his hand. "Now don't get sore, Roger," he said more affably. "I simply want to come to an understanding with you, so we know where each other stands, that's all. Were these articles printed with your sanction or not?" he asked slowly, tapping on the desk with his pencil.
"I wasn't consulted," said Roger simply; "that's not my business."
"Well, damn it," roared Faxon, losing his temper, "it ought to be your business! Isn't it your business to prevent a lot of crack-brained idiots from making a fool out of you?"
"I don't see that they are."
"Well, everybody else sees it. Now look here, Roger. We'll overlook it this time because it wasn't done with your knowledge or consent and you naturally don't understand matters very clearly yet. But it can't happen again, you hear. We won't stand for it."
"And who is supposed to be talking?" asked Roger mildly.
"Who's talking?I'mtalking! And I'm a vice-president of Corey & Company. That's who's talking."
Roger shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. "Honestly, Joe, I don't get you at all. What's all the fuss about anyway?"
"Good God, man," cried Faxon in exasperation. He drew a long breath, and, drawing his chair up closer to Roger's, began an elementary explanation of certain business relationships.
In the meanwhile Bassett and Jenkins and Good sat staring moodily at one another.
"It's a shame!" exclaimed Bassett, savagely chewing on his unlighted cigar. "He'll twist that kid around his finger. He'll pull the wool over his eyes forty different ways."
"Faxon's a clever fellow," mused Jenkins mournfully.
Good filled his pipe and lighted it. He smoked in silence for a little while.
"The Lord's got to be trusted some time," he sighed finally; "I suppose it might just as well be now—but a little more priming would have helped. Just a little more."
"Oh, the kid will knuckle under, that's certain," snarled Bassett. "There's no doubt ofthat. This whole proposition is doomed to failure. It's too good to be true, altogether too good. I tell you, Good, you're asking too much of these people. You're trying to make water rise higher than its source. You're trying to make them prove superior to their whole history, their environment, their friends, everything they've got."
"People prove superior to those things every day," said Good mildly.
"Not when they have to pay as big a price as you're asking."
"Don't you know there are people who have to be made to pay a big price before they think a thing's worth anything?"
Bassett snorted and bit his cigar clear through. "You're the damnedest, most idiotic optimist I ever hope to see!" he cried. Then they all laughed cheerlessly and relapsed into their moody, waiting silence.
At that very moment, in Jenkins' private office, Roger Wynrod leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He puffed thoughtfully for a moment or two without speaking.
"See if I've got this straight, Joe," he said finally. "As I understand your proposition, it's this: As long as we lie down and play good dog, we're agoodadvertising medium. When we get up and bark at something we think ought to be barked at, then we're abadadvertising medium."
"That's one way of expressing it, Roger," laughed Faxon.
Suddenly the young man's quiet, thoughtful demeanour changed. He leaned forward and his jaw hardened. "In other words, when you spend money in advertising with us it's merely a figure of speech. Your advertising appropriation is a sort of slush fund. It's the price you pay for keeping us silent on things you want kept silent. Is that straight?"
"I wouldn't put it just that way. But ..."
"Well, then, suppose,—just suppose, mind you,—suppose we continue on the line of thought expressed in this article that irritated you people so much this morning, what then?"
Faxon leaned forward and his fist came down on the desk with a smash. "Wynrod," he said sharply, "Corey & Company has less than six thousand lines of its contract withThe Dispatchremaining. If you continue to attack us in this way, I can inform you that that contract will not be renewed."
"I see," said Roger quietly.
"Furthermore," added Faxon in the same hard tone, "the contract you now hold with Brooks, Carpenter, Weinstein, LeVigne and all the other members of the department store association, will not be renewed as they expire."
"I see. And if orders are given not to run anything more along this line, what then?"
Faxon smiled. "In that case I can inform you that the pleasant relations that have hitherto existed betweenThe Dispatchand the large stores of this city, will continue as before."
"You tempt me, Joe," said Wynrod in what was little more than a whisper, but with an inscrutable look in his eyes. Then he turned and walked to the window. A faint smile of triumph flitted over Faxon's features as he watched the young man's back. Suddenly Wynrod turned around. "Joe," he said, very calmly but very firmly, "you've been frank with me, and now I'll be the same with you. There are at least half a dozen reasons why I would like to tell you to go to hell, but there's only one necessary. If there was anything needed to stiffen my backbone, it's supplied by the fact that you can come here attempting to give me orders. That won't go, Joe. You came here this morning and insisted on seeing me because you thought you could bully me. That's why you wouldn't talk to Jenkins or Good. But you haven't sized me up right, Joe, and you'd better run back to Corey just as fast as you can and tell him so."