“I sent my agent ahead to place paid advertisements with every paper along my route,” said the puzzled Standish. “And you say he was in town here yesterday. So he couldn’t have skipped Wayne. I’ll drop in on the editor of the Clarion on my way to the station and ask him why the advertisement was overlooked.”
Accordingly, a half hour later, en route for the midnight train, Standish sought out the Clarion office and demanded an interview with its editor-in-chief.
“I guess that’s me,” observed a fat, shirt-sleeved man, who looked up from his task of tinkering with a linotype machine’s inner mysteries. “I’m Mr. Gerrett, editor-in-chief, managing editor, city editor, too. My repertorial staff’s out to supper, this being pay day and he being hungry. Were you wanting to subscribe or—? Take a chair, anyhow,” he broke off, sweeping a pile of proofs off a three-legged stool. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“My name is Standish,” began Clive, “and I called to find out why——”
“Oh!”
The staccato monosyllable served as clearing house for all Gerrett’s geniality, for he froze—as much as a stout and perspiring man can—into editorial super-dignity. Aware that the atmosphere had congealed, but without understanding why, Clive continued:
“My agent called here, did he not? And left an advertisement of——”
“Yes,” snapped Gerrett, “he did. I was out. He left it with my foreman with the cash for it. I mailed a check for the amount this morning to your League headquarters at Granite.”
“But why? The advert——”
“The ad.’s in my waste-basket. Now, as this is my busy night, maybe you’ll clear out and let——”