A week later the Express, scarcely recognizable in its clean, fresh type and modest headlines, with its crisp news and well written editorials, very unostentatiously made its entry into the already crowded metropolitan field. Few noticed it. Adams picked it up and laughed, a short, contemptuous laugh. Fallom glanced over it and wondered. J. Wilton Ames, who had been apprised of its advent, threw it into the waste basket––and then drew it out again. He re-read the editorial announcing the policy of the paper. From that he began a careful survey of the whole sheet. His eye caught an article on the feminist movement, signed by Carmen Ariza. His lip curled, but he read the article through, and finished with the mental comment that it was well written. Then he summoned Willett.
“I want this sheet carefully watched,” he commanded, tossing the paper to his secretary. “If anything is noticed that in any way refers to me or my interests, call my attention to it immediately.”
The secretary bowed and departed. A moment afterward Henry Claus, nominal head of the great Claus brewing interests, was ushered in.
“We licked ’em, Mr. Ames, we licked ’em!” cried the newcomer, rushing forward and clasping the financier’s hand. “The city council last night voted against the neighborhood saloon license bill! Lined up solidly for us! Fine, eh?”
“Yes,” commented the laconic Ames. “Our aldermen are a very intelligent lot of statesmen, Claus. They’re wise enough to see that their jobs depend upon whiskey. It requires very astute statesmanship, Claus, to see that. But some of our congressmen and senators have learned the same thing.”
The brewer pondered this delphic utterance and scratched his head.
“Well,” continued Ames, “have you your report?”
“Eh? Yes, sure, Mr. Ames. Here.”