B. B. looked surprised. “No, I print their names. That’s what the paper’s for—to print people’s names. It makes them feel proud of themselves, and that’s good for them. It’s one way of helping them along, doing them good.”
Wint grinned. “Never did me any particular good to see my name in print,” he said. “Usually made me mad.”
“It wasn’t the fact that they printed your name that made you mad. It was what they printed about you.”
“Maybe so,” Wint admitted. “I didn’t see that it was any of their business.”
“That’s the way the city dailies are run,” B. B. agreed. “But a country weekly is a different proposition. I never print anything that will make any one mad. Not if I can help it. Not even a joke. A joke on a man’s no good unless he can appreciate it himself.”
Wint eyed B. B. and remarked thoughtfully: “I remember, when they stuck me in as Mayor, you didn’t print the fact that my father was a candidate.”
“I supposed that was because you and my father are—allies in politics and such things.”
“No,” said B. B. “I try not to print things that will hurt people. Mr. Chase felt badly about that.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Wint slowly. “You know I had nothing to do with it.” He had never talked so freely to any one as he was accustomed to talk to B. B. There was some strain in the editor that invited confidences. He knew as many secrets as a doctor.