Paul directed his gaze to the wheezing, balloon-like figure of the editor. "Has Kane given you enough advertising, Bivens?"
The puffed, greedy face smiled ingratiatingly. "Mr. Kane's been very good to us, sir. At least a quarter of a page weekly."
"How has the Voice of Labor made out?"
"It's made out—that's about all, Mr. Judson. Print paper's gone so high, that only the advertisements has made it go. We expect this special will net a neat sum."
He jingled the Woodmen's emblem at the end of a thick gold chain, thoroughly satisfied with the world. There was an Odd Fellows' button on his coat—fraternal orders strengthened his appeals for the paper.
"Pooley, how do you stand on this mining law down at Jackson?"
The lanky president of the State Federation twisted his lame leg more comfortably under him, and leaned forward, gesticulating diplomatically. "It's both good and bad, Mr. Judson. Some of the boys is very strong for it. But I seen an editorial against it in the Times-Dispatch last week. I figured you might not be for it."
Paul cut through the verbal knot. "How will the Federation go?"
The other shook his head. "No telling. There's a few of them Socialists is delegates—they're for anything to stir up trouble; but nobody pays much attention to them. Then there is others. It'll be pretty even."
"How would you feel if I took the front and back pages, Bivens?"