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Updated: June 1, 2025
The trouble soon died out, but, while making new enemies amongst the rabid organization men, strengthened the "Clarion's" growing repute for independence. One of the most violent objectors was Max Veltman, whose protest, delivered to Hal and McGuire Ellis, was so vehement that he was advised curtly and emphatically to confine his activities and opinions to his own department.
A bit of a fanatic, too. But an A1 man all right. Get the composing-room," he directed through the telephone, "and ask Mr. Veltman to come to Mr. Surtaine's office." As the printer entered, Hal was struck again with his physical beauty. "Did you want to see me?" he asked, looking at the "new boss" with somber eyes. "Tell Mr. Surtaine about the newspapers and the Store Federation, Max," said Ellis.
One line of print stood out, writhing as if in an uncontrollable access of diabolic glee: "Only $1 A Box: Satisfaction Guaranteed"; and above it the face of the Happy Lady, distorted by the crumpling of the paper, smirked up at him with a taunt. He thought to interpret that taunt in the words which Veltman had used, aforetime: "What's your percentage?"
To Veltman it seemed quite natural that popular rage should be directed toward the object of his hatred. He sat down weakly upon the curb and waited to see what would happen. Another chance auditor of that speech did not wait. McGuire Ellis stayed just long enough to scent danger, and hurried back to the office. "Trouble brewing down in the Rookeries," he told Hal. "More than usual?"
"I've thought sometimes I'd like to try my hand at a regular news story," she went on, in a changed tone. "I think I've got one, if I could only do it right; one of those facts-behind-the-news stories that you talked to us about. Do you remember meeting me with Max Veltman the other night?" "Yes." "Did you think it was queer?" "A little."
But Fate tripped the strategy board at last, using the Reverend Norman Hale as its agent. Since Milly Neal's death, the Reverend Norman had tried to find time to call on Hal Surtaine, and had failed. He wished to talk with him about Veltman.
At the second, Veltman stopped, half turned, threw his arms widely outward, and vanished in a blinding glare, accompanied by a gigantic snap! as if a mountain of rock had been riven in twain. To Hal it seemed that the universe had disintegrated in that concussion. Blackness surrounded him. He was on the floor, half crouching, and, to his surprise, unhurt.
If they want a piece of news kept out of print, they tell the editor so, and you bet it's kept out. Otherwise that paper loses the advertising." "Has it ever been done here?" "Has it? Get Veltman down to tell you about the Store Employees' Federation." "Veltman? What does he know of it? He's in the printing-department, isn't he?" "Composing-room; yes. Outside he's a labor agitator and organizer.
Guiding himself by the light of matches, Hal hurried across to his den. He heard Esmé's voice before he could make her out, standing near the door. "Is any one hurt?" Hal breathed a great sigh. "You're all right, then! We don't know how bad it is." "An explosion?" "Veltman threw a bomb. He's killed." "Boy-ee!" called Dr. Surtaine. "Here, Dad. You're safe?" "Yes." "Thank God!
Surtaine, this is Max Veltman, foreman of our composing-room." Slowly the printer turned his fine, serious face from one to the other. "Ah," he said presently. "So it is arranged. We do not print this paragraph. Good!" Impossible to take offense at the tone. Yet the smile which accompanied it was so plainly a sneer that Hal's color rose. "Mr.
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