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Updated: June 8, 2025
"The authorities!" cried the charlatan, in disdain. "What could they do? The damage would be done before they got ready to move. You see, we've got to handle this situation diplomatically. Look here, Boyee; what's the worst feature of an epidemic? Panic. You know the Bible parable. The seven plagues came to Egypt and ten thousand people died.
I hev got ther blood o' Cain and Abel in my veins, boyee, an' ef I ken't raise the biggest kind o' Cain tain't because I ain't able oh! no. Pace anuther pilgrim?" "I reckon. How much have ye got piled up thar in that heap!" "Squar' ninety tens, my huckleberry, an' all won fa'r, you bet."
I think you've got a touch of that prevalent disease of youth, fool-in-the-head. But, I guess, as father and son, pal and pal, we're pretty well suited, eh?" "Yes," said Hal. There was that in the monosyllable which wholly contented the older man. "Go ahead with your 'Clarion, Boyee. Blow your fool head off. Deave us all deaf. Play any tune you want, and pay yourself for your piping.
I happened to see a patient you'd treated, two years ago, by that mild method. It wasn't cancer at all; only a benign tumor. Your soothing oils burned her breast off, like so much fire. She's dead now." "Oh, we all make mistakes." "But we don't all commit murder." "Rub it in, if you like to. You can't make me mad. Just the same, if it wasn't for what you've done for Boyee "
Some distance behind, the itinerant wallowed like a drunken man, muttering brilliant bargain offers of good conduct to Almighty God, if "Boyee" were saved to him.
"Not at all," she returned lamely, and walked away, her face still crimson. Returning to the executive suite, the young scion found his father immersed in technicalities of copy with the second advertising writer. "Sit down, Boyee," said he. "I'll be through in a few minutes." And he resumed his discussion of "black-face," "36-point," "indents," "boxes," and so on.
"All right, Boyee," returned his father sorrowfully. "You're wrong, dead wrong. But I like your nerve. Only, let me tell you this. You think you're going to keep on printing the news and the whole news and all that sort of thing. I tell you, it can't be done." "Why can't it be done?" "Because, sooner or later, you'll bump up against your own interests so hard that you'll have to quit."
Hal hesitated, looking to Ellis for counsel. "You've got to do something for an advertiser on a big order like this, Boyee," urged his father. "Let's see the copy," put in Ellis. The trained journalistic eye ran over the sheets. "Lot of gaudy slush about copper mines in general," he observed, "and not much information on Streaky Mountain." "It's an undeveloped property," said McQuiggan.
And then in dominant presentment "What do you think of Old Lame-Boy?" asked Dr. Surtaine. "From an æsthetic point of view?" "Never mind the æsthetics of it. 'Handsome is as handsome does." "What has that faded beauty done, then?" "Carried many a thousand of our money to bank for us, Boyee. That's the ad. that made the business." "Did you design it?"
"Well, what about 'Boyee'?" broke in his persecutor quite undisturbed. "He seems a perfectly decent sort of human integer." The bold eyes shifted and softened abruptly. "He's the big thing in my life." "Bringing him up to the trade, eh?" "No, damn you!" "Damn me, if you like. But don't damn him. He seems to be a bit too good for this sort of thing."
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