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"That's because the formulas were amateur formulas, isn't it?" The veteran of a quarter-century turned a mildly quizzical smile upon the adventurer into risky waters. "Well?" he jerked out. Marrineal's face was quite serious as he took up the obvious implication. "Where is the dividing line between professional and amateur in the newspaper business?
"Or as a wooden automaton, jumping at the end of a special wire from 'our correspondent. Ban, can you see Marrineal's hand on a wire?" "If it's plain enough to be visible, I'm underestimating his tact. I'd like to have a lock of his hair to dream on to-night. I'm off to think things over, Pop. Good-night."
A pained and patient smile overspread Marrineal's regular features. "The Patriot's leader-writer draws a hundred at present." "I dare say." "The whole page costs barely three hundred." "It is overpaid." "For a comparative novice," observed Marrineal without rancor, "you do not lack self-confidence." "There are the goods," said Banneker evenly.
This one was on the subject of pure milk. Even in his fury Banneker laughed. He next considered the handwriting of the blue-penciled monosyllable. It was not Marrineal's blunt, backhand script. Whose was it? Haring's? Trailing the proof in his hand he went to the business manager's room. "Did you kill this?" "Yes." Haring got to his feet, white and shaking. "For God's sake, Mr. Banneker "
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