"Don't you know there are people who have to be made to pay a big price before they think a thing's worth anything?"
Bassett snorted and bit his cigar clear through. "You're the damnedest, most idiotic optimist I ever hope to see!" he cried. Then they all laughed cheerlessly and relapsed into their moody, waiting silence.
At that very moment, in Jenkins' private office, Roger Wynrod leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He puffed thoughtfully for a moment or two without speaking.
"See if I've got this straight, Joe," he said finally. "As I understand your proposition, it's this: As long as we lie down and play good dog, we're a good advertising medium. When we get up and bark at something we think ought to be barked at, then we're a bad advertising medium."
"That's one way of expressing it, Roger," laughed Faxon.
Suddenly the young man's quiet, thoughtful demeanour changed. He leaned forward and his jaw hardened. "In other words, when you spend money in advertising with us it's merely a figure of speech. Your advertising appropriation is a sort of slush fund. It's the price you pay for keeping us silent on things you want kept silent. Is that straight?"
"I wouldn't put it just that way. But ..."
"Well, then, suppose,—just suppose, mind you,—suppose we continue on the line of thought expressed in this article that irritated you people so much this morning, what then?"
Faxon leaned forward and his fist came down on the desk with a smash. "Wynrod," he said sharply, "Corey & Company has less than six thousand lines of its contract with The Dispatch remaining. If you continue to attack us in this way, I can inform you that that contract will not be renewed."
"I see," said Roger quietly.