Bassett looked up quickly. "Oh—are you one of that socialist outfit?"
"No more socialist than you are plutocrat. I'm just a newspaper man—like yourself."
"Conscienceless, eh?"
"Consciences are expensive."
"Yes," said Bassett pensively, "most of us have to let the little darlings starve to death. I bet if we slipped into the next life with a murderer and a thief, St. Peter'd give 'em both a golden harp and ..."
"Oh, cheer up," laughed Good, "let's not worry about preferred positions in the next edition. We've got plenty to do with this one."
"Well, then," said the small man, "how about playing up this working girl stuff as a starter on the new idea? That ought to appeal to you."
"I'm afraid you don't quite understand," explained Good patiently. "This isn't going to be an organ of the working classes."
"That's all right, too, but in your talk out there to the boys you said you were going to print all the truth all the time. Well, this is true and people certainly ought to know about it. Those girls are getting a hell of a rotten deal. What about it?"
Good was silent. "Frankly, I don't know," he murmured.