"You're a clever little dog," said Meyrick, through his teeth.
"You are not exactly complimentary. However—let us say for the argument—you buy the Mail at once. I am, by the way, empowered to make the sale. You take charge. You hurry to the office. You destroy all copies of to-day's issue so far printed. You give orders to the composing-room to kill this first-page story—good as it is. 'Please kill,' you say. A term with newspaper men."
"You call yourself a newspaper man?"
"Why not? The story is killed. Another is put in its place—say, for example, an elaborate account of your daughter's wedding. And in its changed form the Mail—your newspaper—goes on the street."
"Um—and your price?"
"It is a valuable property."
"Especially valuable this morning, I take it," sneered Meyrick.
"Valuable at any time. Our presses cost a thousand. Our linotypes two thousand. And there is that other thing—so hard to estimate definitely—the wide appeal of our paper. The price—well—fifteen thousand dollars. Extremely reasonable. And I will include—the good will of the retiring management."
"You contemptible little—" began Spencer Meyrick.
"My dear sir—control yourself," pleaded Gonzale. "Or I may be unable to include the good will I spoke of. Would you care to see that story on the streets? You may at any moment. There is but one way out. Buy the newspaper. Buy it now. Here is the plan—you go with me to your bank. You procure fifteen thousand in cash. We go together to the Mail office. You pay me the money and I leave you in charge."