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Presently there would be cigars. Then Marrineal would introduce him, and he would say to these men, this high and inner circle of journalism, the things which he could not write for his public, which he could present to them alone, since they alone would understand. It was to be his magnum opus, that speech. For a moment he had lost physical visualization in mental vision.
He preferred to keep the talk in light tone until his time came. From the case he extracted two close-packed piles of news-print, folded in half. "Coals to Newcastle," smiled Marrineal. "These seem to be copies of The Patriot." "Not exact copies. Try this one." Selecting an issue at random he passed it to the other.
They talked of matters journalistic, Marrineal lapsing tactfully into the role of attentive listener again, until there appeared in the lower room a dark-faced man of thirty-odd, spruce and alert, who, upon sighting them, came confidently forward. Marrineal ordered him a drink and presented him to the two journalists as Mr. Ely Ives. As Mr.
He reverted again to his expressionless reverie, out of which exhaled the observation: "I wonder what the present editorial staff could do with that." "Am I to infer that you intend to help yourself to my idea?" inquired Banneker. Mr. Marrineal aroused himself hastily from his editorial dream. Though by no means a fearful person, he was uncomfortably sensible of a menace, imminent and formidable.
"Well, a lot of the sane ones get stung on the Street," moralized Ives. "I guess the only way to beat that game is to get crazy and take all the chances. Mr. Banneker stands to drop half a year's salary in U.T. alone unless there's a turn." Marrineal delivered another well-thought-out bit of wisdom. "If I'm any judge, he wants a paper of his own.
"Banneker, do you know anything of an advertisement by the striking garment-workers, which The Patriot first accepted and afterward refused to print?" "Yes." "Are you at liberty to tell me why?" "In confidence." "That is implied." "Mr. Marrineal ordered it killed." "Ah! It was Marrineal himself. The advocate of the Common People! The friend of Labor!"
New York's in his blood. He's in love with life, puppy-love; his clubs, his theater first-nights, his invitations to big houses which he seldom accepts, big people coming to his House with Three Eyes. And, of course, his sense of power in the paper. No; he won't quit. How could he? He'll compromise." "Do you figure him to be the compromising sort?" asked Marrineal doubtfully.
The two practical journalists left, making an appointment to spend the following morning with Marrineal in planning policy and methods. Banneker went back to his apartment and wrote Miss Camilla Van Arsdale all about it, in exultant mood. "Brains to let! But I've got my price. And I'll get a higher one: the highest, if I can hold out. It's all due to you.
"A paper can be important only through what it makes people believe and think. What possible difference can it make what The Patriot's readers think?" "If there were enough of them?" suggested Marrineal. "No. Besides, you'll never get enough of them, in the way you're running the paper now." "Don't say 'you, please," besought Marrineal. "I've been keeping my hands off. Watching."
As a facture, a creation made to the mind of the creator, The Patriot was Banneker's own. True, Marrineal reserved full control. But Marrineal, after a few months spent in anxious observation of his editor's headlong and revolutionary method, had taken the sales reports for his determinative guide and decided to give the new man full sway.
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