“About what?”
“About what McWayne told you.” The reporter spoke unemotionally.
“About some rumor concerning my son?”
“No, sir.”
“No?” E. H. Merriwether looked surprised.
“No. I wished to know what statement you desire to make about your son's engagement and marriage. If you do not care to say anything we shall not publish any fake interview, no matter what opinion I personally may form as to the real state of your feelings.”
“I take it you are from one of the yellow papers, young man?” E. H. Merriwether spoke coldly; but, within, his heart-tragedy was being enacted.
“You usually take what you wish if it isn't nailed down, I have heard; but that, doubtless, is one of the slanders that automatically grow up about a great man, sir,” said the reporter, without the shadow of a smile or frown.
“If I am mistaken about the newspaper you represent—” Here Mr. Merriwether paused, as if to allow the young man to introduce himself; but the young man said:
“If I told you the name of the newspaper that honors itself by playing fair with you, I suspect you would set in motion the machinery that you—er—men of large affairs use to suppress news. You couldn't reach my city editor, who is a poor man with a family of eight, or the reporter, who is penniless; but you could reach the owner, who is a millionaire. This is my first big story in New York and it will make me professionally. It means a lot to me!”