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Updated: June 10, 2025
Surtaine looked into the muzzle of a revolver. There was a step on the soft rug outside, the curtain of the door to Dr. Surtaine's right parted, and Hal appeared. He carried a light stick. "I thought I heard " he began. Then, seeing the revolver, "What's this! Put that down!" "Don't move, either of you," warned the girl. "I haven't said my say out. You're a fine-matched pair, you two!
Surtaine as he really is." Meantime Hal, home at a reasonable hour, in the interest of his new profession, had taken with him the pleasantest impressions of the Willards' hospitality. He slept soundly and awoke in buoyant spirits for the dawning enterprise. On the breakfast table he found, in front of his plate, a bunchy envelope addressed in a small, strong, unfamiliar hand.
And before he undertook his appeal to bring the errant one back to shore he gave himself two days to think it over. To this extent Dr. Surtaine had become a partisan of the new enterprise; that he, too, previsioned an ideal newspaper, a newspaper which, day by day, should uphold and defend the Best Interests of the Community, and, as an inevitable corollary, nourish itself on their bounty.
While he was thus engaged, McGuire Ellis entered. "Hello!" the physician greeted him. "What have you got there? Revolvers?" "Count 'em; two," answered Ellis. "Gimme one," said the visitor, helping himself to a long-barreled .45. "Here! That's for Hal Surtaine," protested Ellis. "Not by a jug-ful! He's too hot-headed. Besides, can he afford to be in it if there should be any serious trouble?
In response to a telephone call the city editor presented his lank form and bearded face at the door of the sanctum. "The Rookeries deaths?" he said. "Oh, malaria for convenience." "Malaria?" repeated Dr. Surtaine. "Why, there aren't any mosquitoes in that locality now." "So the health officer, Dr. Merritt, says. But the certificates keep coming in. He's pretty worried.
It's always 'A State Street Department Store' or 'A Warburton Avenue Shop. Ask Ellis if that isn't so." "Correct," said Ellis. "Why shouldn't it be so?" cried Shearson. "You fellows make me tired. You're always thinking of the news and never of the advertising. Who is it pays your salaries, do you think? The men who advertise in the 'Clarion." "Hear! Hear!" from Dr. Surtaine.
Belford Couch and I have been going over the whole matter. He's the diplomat of the concern. And we've about decided to sell out. Anyway," he added, brightening, "there ain't hardly money enough in a side-line like the Pills to pay for the trouble of running it separate." If Dr. Surtaine had looked for explicit approval of his virtuous resolution, he was disappointed.
"A hot one, you are, to talk about crookedness." "He's paying his advertising bills out of my people's pay envelopes!" accused Dr. Surtaine. "How's that, Doc?" asked Ellis. "Why, when he was here before, he spent some time around the Certina plant and got acquainted with the department managers and a lot of the others, and damn me!" cried Dr.
While he sat reading proof on the status of a flickering foreign war, the Hardscrabbler's daughter, in a quiet back room farther down the block, slowly sipped more gin; and gin is fire and fury to the Hardscrabbler blood. At eleven o'clock that evening, Dr. Surtaine, returning to that massive hybrid of architecture which he called home, found Milly Neal waiting in his study.
"Still sticking out for the money-back-if-not-satisfied racket in the other fellow's business, eh, Andy? Better practice it in your own." "Hal," Dr. Surtaine turned to his son, "has McQuiggan brought in a new batch of copy?" "So I understand." "The 'Clarion' mustn't run it." "The hell it mustn't!" said McQuiggan. "It's crooked," said the quack bluntly. The promoter laughed.
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