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Updated: May 18, 2025
The St. Louis Republic shifts and shuffles and maintains a neutral attitude. It is suspected of gold bugism and it dares not criticize the Governor that it scourged in cartoon and comment. The Post-Dispatch, that was the greatest silver daily and is owned by the millionaire Pulitzer, is now suspected of gold bugism.
Louis Post-Dispatch of August 20, contains a half-page puff of one John Morrissey, who seems to be a peripatetic iconoclast who has started out with a Bible in one hand, and a free lunch in the other to abolish preachers.
Louis Dispatch, amalgamated it with the Post, and made the Post-Dispatch a profitable business enterprise and a power to be reckoned with in politics, he felt the need of a wider field in which to maneuver the forces of his character and his intellect. He came to New York in 1883 and purchased The World from Jay Gould.
He had not created the Post-Dispatch, or even met the beautiful woman who became his wife. He was a youngster of five or six and twenty, revisiting the scenes of his boyhood on the beautiful blue Danube, and taking in Paris for a lark. I first met General Grant in my own house. I had often been invited to his house.
Col. Jones never would have obtained control of the "Post-Dispatch." Silver sentiment would have been smothered by the politicians of Missouri and Bland never would have been a candidate. There would have been no Missouri alliance with Mr. Altgeld and the combination of peculiar political ability that was attracted to Stone.
Officially," he added, "I am the representative of the New York Post-Dispatch, a paper which, you may know, has solved a good many mysteries before now. In this case, the Post-Dispatch will of course take the credit, but it wants a little more than that. It wants to be the only paper tomorrow morning to print the true details. We four are the only ones who know them.
"Post-Dispatch wants correspondent on spot. If you have any facts to give out, save them for me. Arrive Lambert Junction three-fifty. Under the terrible strain of the past six days I had completely forgotten Terry's existence and now the memory of his cool impertinence came back to me with a rush.
Could we have kept it from the papers, it would not have been so bad, but that was a physical impossibility; Terry Patten was on our track, and within a week he had brought down upon us every newspaper in New York. The first I ever heard of Terry, a card was sent in bearing the inscription, "Mr. Terence K. Patten," and in the lower left-hand corner, "of the Post-Dispatch."
I shuddered as I read it. The Post-Dispatch was at that time the yellowest of the yellow journals. While I was still shuddering, Terry walked in through the door the office boy had inadvertently left open. He nodded a friendly good morning, helped himself to a chair, tossed his hat and gloves upon the table, crossed his legs comfortably, and looked me over.
"The Post-Dispatch prints the truth, you know, and some of the other papers don't. The truth's always the best in the end. I merely want to find out what information you can give me in regard to the ghost." "I will tell you nothing," Radnor growled. "I am not giving statements to the press." "Mr.
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