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It isn't meant to. "Whom does it express, then? Mr. Marrineal?" "No. It isn't an expression at all in that sense. It's a a response. A response to the demand of hundreds of thousands of people who have never had a newspaper made for them before." "An echo of vox populi? Does that excuse its sins?" "I'm not putting it forth as an excuse. Is it really sins or only bad taste that offends you?"
"I suppose it would," admitted Marrineal dubiously. "Of course fifty thousand in six months is an extreme assumption. Suppose the circulation stands still?" "Then I starve. It's a gamble. But it strikes me that I'm giving the odds." "Can you amuse yourself for an hour?" asked Marrineal abruptly. "Why, yes," answered Banneker hesitantly. "Perhaps you'd turn me loose in your library.
It had offended a powerful ring of bankers and for a time embarrassed Marrineal in his loans. It had threatened editorial reprisals upon a combination of those feared and arrogant advertisers, the department stores, for endeavoring, with signal lack of success, to procure the suppression of certain market news.
Once a month Marrineal gave a bachelor dinner of Lucullan repute. The company, though much smaller than the gatherings at The House With Three Eyes, covered a broader and looser social range.
Marrineal," invited Banneker, moving his chair to leave a vacancy between himself and his companion. Tertius C. Marrineal was a man of forty, upon whom the years had laid no bonds.
"Will he get the nomination?" "Quite possibly. Unless I can beat him for it. I'll tell you privately I may be the opposing candidate. Not that the party loves me any too much; but I'm at least respectable, fairly strong up-State, and they'll take what they have to in order to beat Marrineal, who is forcing himself down their throats." "A pleasant prospect for me," gloomed Banneker.
"It isn't the money loss that counts, so much as the slap in the face to the paper. It's a direct repudiation. You must realize that." "I'm not wholly a novice in politics." "But I am, practically." "Not so much that you can't see what Marrineal would be at." "Mr. Marrineal has not confided in me." "Nor in me," stated the lawyer grimly. "I don't need his confidence to perceive his plans."
"He isn't the journalistic Puritan that he lets on to be. Look at that Harvey Wheelwright editorial," pointed out the acute Ives. "He don't believe what he wrote about Wheelwright; just did it for his own purposes. Well, if the oracle can work himself for his own purposes, others can work him when the time comes, if it's properly managed." Marrineal shook his head.
I'd resign to-morrow if it weren't for the fact that Marrineal still wants to cocker up the labor crowd for his political purposes, and so gives me a free hand in my own special line. By the way, he's got the Veridian matter all nicely smoothed out. Oh, my, yes! Fired the general manager, put in all sorts of reforms, recognized the union, the whole programme!
"He'll want more. She's an expensive luxury." "He can get more. Any time when he chooses to handle The Patriot so that it attracts instead of offends the big advertisers." "Why don't you put the screws on him now, Mr. Marrineal?" smirked Ives with thin-lipped malignancy. Marrineal frowned. His cold blood inclined him to be deliberate; the ophidian habit, slow-moving until ready to strike.
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