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With one powerful effort he sent the foreman whirling through the open door into the hall, slammed the door after him, and stood shaking. He heard and felt the jar of Veltman's body as it struck the wall, and slumped to the floor; then the slow limp of his retreating footsteps. With a seething brain he returned to his proof and shuddered away from it. There was blood spattered over the print.
But what has that to do with Veltman's resignation?" "Everything, I should think. Notice anything queer about the page?" "No." "Look it over again." Hal took up the paper and scrutinized the sheet. "I don't see a thing wrong," he said. "That lets me out," said Ellis grimly. "If you can't see it when you're told it's there, I guess I can't be blamed for not catching it in proof.
He was rather surprised at the intensity of his own relief from the prospect of the court ordeal. At least, he was getting his price. McGuire Ellis was, for once, not asleep, though there was no work on his desk when Hal entered the sanctum. "Veltman's quit," was his greeting. "I'm not surprised," said Hal. "Then you've seen the editorial page this morning?" "Yes.
Surtaine is the new owner of the 'Clarion," explained Ellis. "In that case, of course," said Veltman quietly. "Good-night, gentlemen." "Good-looking chap," remarked Hal. "But what a curious expression." "Veltman's a thinker and a crank," said Ellis. "If he had a little more balance he'd make his mark. But he's a sort of melancholiac.
"The 'Clarion'!" There was a profundity of contempt in Veltman's voice; and a deeper bitterness when he snapped his teeth upon a word which sounded to Hal suspiciously like the Biblical characterization of an undesirable citizeness of Babylon. "In any case, they won't give the 'Clarion' any more orders." "Oh, yes, they will," said Veltman stolidly.
"Catches on, though. We really ought to run it every day. But the girl hasn't got time to do it." "Who is she?" "Some kid in your father's factory, I understand. Protégée of Veltman's, He brought her stuff in and we took it right off the bat." "Well, I'll tell you one thing that is going." "What?" "The 'Clarion's' motto.
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.
A red-necked man, standing on a barrel, was making a speech to a big crowd gathered at one of the corners. Dimly-heard, the word "Clarion" came to Veltman's ears. "What's he saying?" he asked a neighbor. "He's roastin' the 'Clarion," replied the man. "We ought to go up there an' tear the buildin' down."
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