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"Guess I'll go look up this Shearson person," said Mr. McQuiggan, a trifle less jauntily. "See you all later." "I'd no notion you were the writer of the Cutie paragraphs, Milly," said Dr. Surtaine. "They're lively stuff." "Nobody has. I'm keeping it dark. It's only a try-out. You did send for me, didn't you?" she added, turning to Hal. "Yes.
L. André Surtaine in the fulfillment of his agreement with his son the exact purpose of the visit, by the way, would have inspired Harrington Surtaine with unpleasant surprise, could he have known it; and Miss Esmé Elliot on a tour of inspection for the Visiting Nurses' Association, of which she was an energetic official.
Surtaine spread out upturned hands, in dumb, oracular illustration of his own sagacity. "But I'd do the same thing over again if it came up for decision." "That's exactly what you mustn't do, Hal. Now, if I get you out of this scrape, I want you to go more carefully." "How are you going to get me out of it?" "Square it with E.M. Pierce. He's a good friend of mine." "Do you really like Mr.
Shearson wouldn't have been pleased if we'd printed 'em." In fact, Shearson, the advertising manager, looked far from pleased at the mention. "If you think a one-day story would pay for the loss of five thousand a year in advertising, you've got another guess, young man," he growled. "He's right, there," said Dr. Surtaine, on one side of Hal; and from the other, McGuire Ellis chirped:
Merritt would turn the city upside down if he had his way. Was it him that told you it was typhus?" "No. We've got a two-page story in proof now, giving the whole facts of the epidemic." "You can't publish it, Boy-ee," said his father firmly. "Can't? That sounds like an order." Adroitly Dr. Surtaine caught at the word. "An order drawn on your word of honor."
Let me tell you something, you two: there's hardly a reporter in this city who isn't more honest than the paper he works for." "Hifalutin nonsense," said Dr. Surtaine. "From your point of view. You're an outsider. It's outsiders that make the newspaper game as bad as it is. Look at 'em in this town. Who owns the 'Banner'? A political boss. Who owns the 'News'? A brewer.
This noble sentiment, delivered with all the impressiveness of which the old charlatan was master, roused a burst of applause. To its rhythm there stalked down the side aisle and out upon the rostrum the gaunt figure of the Reverend Norman Hale. "Mr. Chairman," he said. "How did that fellow get here?" Dr. Surtaine asked of Douglas. "We invited all the ministers," was the low response.
"Don't like it," returned Dr. Surtaine abruptly. "Anti-Ralgia's played that to death. Lemme think, for a moment." Down he plumped into Conover's chair, seized a pencil and made tentative jabs at a sheet of paper. "Pellets, pellets," he muttered. Then, in a kind of subdued roar, "I've got it! I've got it, Con! 'Pro-Pellets. Tell people what they're for, not what they're against.
"Do I get an answer to my question?" persisted Willard. "What is your question?" asked the harassed chairman. "Is there a pestilence in the Rookeries? If so, what is its nature?" "There is not," stated Dr. Surtaine from his seat. "Who ever says there is, is an enemy to our fair and healthy city."
"And the German family at the top?" Dr. Surtaine tapped his chest significantly. "Sure to be plenty of that in this kind of hole. Nothing to do but let 'em die." He did not mention that he had left a twenty-dollar bill and a word of cheer with the gasping consumptive and his wife. Outside of the line of business Dr. Surtaine's charities were silent. "How many of the other cases have you had here?"
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