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Updated: April 30, 2025
Harrington Surtaine?" Hal threw it over to Ellis. "Whose writing is that?" he asked. "It looks familiar to me." "Max Veltman's," said Ellis. He took in the meaning of it. "The insolent whelp!" he said. "Insolent? Yes; he's that. But the worst of it is, I'm afraid he's right." And he telephoned for Shearson. The advertising manager came up, puffing. Hal held out the clipping to him.
If credence could be placed in the lamenting Shearson, wherever it attacked an abuse, whether by denunciation or ridicule, it lost an advertiser. Moreover the public, not yet ready to credit any journal with honest intentions, was inclined to regard the "Clarion" as "a chronic kicker."
Specifically, seats for shopgirls, and extra pay for extra work, as during Old Home Week, when the stores kept open until 10 P.M.? Hal agreed, and, in the face of the dismalest forecasts from Shearson, prepared several editorials.
"Do you know who the Sewing Aid Association is?" "No." "It's John M. Gibbs! That's who it is!" "Yell louder, Shearson. It may save you from apoplexy," advised McGuire Ellis with tender solicitude. "And we lose every line of the Boston Store advertising, that I worked so hard to get back." "That'll hurt," allowed Ellis. "Hurt! It draws blood, that does.
Shearson did the only thing he could think of in so unheard-of an emergency. He went out to call up the office of E.M. Pierce. Left to his own thoughts, the editor-in-chief reconstructed the scene of the outrage. None too strong did that term seem to him.
"If the city is saved from a regular pestilence, it'll be the Clarion's' doing." "That doesn't seem to be the opinion of the business men of the place," said Hal, with a rather dreary smile. He had just been going over with the lugubrious Shearson a batch of advertising cancellations. "Oh, don't look for any credit from this town," retorted the health officer.
"Tell him, yourself," retorted Ellis with entire good nature. "He isn't the sort to offer gratuitous information to." Upon this advice, L.P. McQuiggan reëntered. "All fixed," said he, with evident satisfaction. "We went to the mat on rates, but Shearson agreed to give me some good reading notices. Now, I'll beat it. See you to-night, Andy?" Dr. Surtaine nodded.
We were sold out before nine this morning." "Selling papers is our line of business," observed the owner-editor. "You won't think so when you hear Shad Shearson. He's an avalanche of woe, waiting to sweep down upon you." "What's his trouble? The department store advertising?" "The Boston Store advertising is gone. Others are threatening to follow.
Moreover, "Kitty the Cutie" took up the campaign in her column, and her series of "Lunch-Time Chats," with their slangy, pungent, workaday flavor, presented the case of the overworked saleswomen in a way to stir the dullest sympathies. The event fully justified Shearson in his rôle of Cassandra.
In the morning he had recovered his balance, and with it his dogged determination to see the matter through. He forced himself to read the leading editorial, finding spirit even to admire the dexterity with which he had held out the promise of good behavior to the business interests, whilst pretending to a sturdy independence. Shearson met him at the entrance to the building, beaming.
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