XI
While Paul was dictating, in sharp, short sentences, the answers to the batch of mail marked "Mining," two cards were brought in to him.
"John Pooley,
President State Federation of Labor."
"R. E. L. Bivens,
Editor, The Adamsville Voice of Labor."
His eyes crinkled into a smile, although the mouth remained a hard fixed line. Pelham must see this pair of blood-suckers at work; that would open the boy's eyes to the dry rot in the practical working out of his labor theorizing.
No, he would see them alone. Perhaps he could get at the son indirectly.
"Send Mr. Kane in."
The company's advertising manager opened the private door as the two labor leaders were adjusting themselves complacently into ample chairs.
"What can I do for you, Pooley?"
"We called to see about the convention special of the Voice, sir. Wouldn't you like a half-page write-up for the company, or yourself? The half is only seventy-five dollars.... It'll go where it'll do lots of good, sir."