"Advertise in all the papers, morning and evening."
Young Mr. Barrett stared at him, then he shook his head, tapped it with his knuckles, and confessed: "Solid!"
"Give me a pencil!" said H. R. It sounded like "Fix bayonets!"
"Nothing," Mr. Onthemaker permitted himself to observe, judicially, "is so conducive to front-page publicity as intelligent violence. This is not a strike, but a cause. Look at the militants—"
"There is something in that," admitted A. Barrett.
"There is something," said H. R., gently, "in everything, even in Max's cranium. But, this is not a matter of principle, but of making money."
"But if you first establish—"
"No," interrupted H. R. "If you make money, the principle establishes itself. The situation does not call for a flash of inspiration, but for common sense. Listen carefully: Nothing is so timid as Capital!"
He looked at them as if further talk were redundant, superfluous, unnecessary, a waste of time, and an insult.
"Well?" said Barrett, forgetting himself and speaking impatiently.