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Updated: May 18, 2025
But when she put the question to him, he looked uncomfortable. Like a good city editor, however, he defended his subordinate. "It isn't the society reporter's fault," he said. "He knows those people don't belong." "How do they get in there, then?" asked Hal. "Mr. Shearson's orders." "Is Mr. Shearson the society editor?" asked Esmé. "No. He's the advertising manager."
"We strive to please, in the local newspaper shops." Ellis turned to answer the buzzing telephone. "Get on your life preserver," he advised his principal. "Shearson's coming up to weep all over you." The advertising manager entered, his plump cheeks sagging into lugubrious and reproachful lines, speaking witnesses to a sentiment not wholly unjustifiable in his case.
As he hurried up the stairs, the door of Shearson's room opened upon him, and there emerged therefrom a brick-red, agile man who greeted him with a hard cordiality. "Your paper certainly turned the trick. I gotta hand it to you!" "What trick?" asked Hal, not recognizing the stranger. "Selling my stock. Streaky Mountain Copper Company. Don't you remember?" Hal did remember now.
From the liquid depths of the old quack's eyes, big and soft like an animal's, there welled two great tears, to trickle slowly down the set face. Hal turned and stumbled from the office. Hardly knowing whither he went, he turned in at the first open door, which chanced to be Shearson's. There he sat until his self-control returned.
"Would it be our affair if Pierce didn't control advertising?" Shearson's fat hands went to his fat neck in a gesture of desperation. "That's different," he cried. "I can't seem to make you see my point. Why looka here, Mr. Surtaine. Who pays for the running of a newspaper? The advertisers. Where do your profits come from? Advertising.
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