“Never mind,” said Mr. Foxman. “I guess I can find them without any help. … Oh, yes, Benny, I’m not to be disturbed during the next hour for anything. Nobody is to see me except Singlebury. Understand?”
“Yes, sir—nobody,” said Benny. “I’ll remember, sir.”
Inside his own room, which opened directly upon the city room, Mr. Foxman brushed from his desk a neatly piled file of the afternoon papers, glanced through a heap of mail—some personal mail, but mostly official—without opening any of the letters, and then gave his attention to four big soiled manila envelopes which rested side by side upon his wide blue blotter pad. One of these envelopes was labelled, across its upper front, “Blake, John W.”; the second was labelled “Bogardus, S. P.”; the third, “Pratt, Ezra”; and the fourth, “Pearl Street Trolley Line.” Each of the four bulged dropsically with its contents, which contents, when Mr. Foxman had bent [308] back the envelope flaps and emptied the envelopes, proved to be sheafs of newspaper clippings, some frayed with handling and yellowed with age, some still fresh and crisp, and all bearing the stencilled identification mark of the functionary who runs what is called in some shops the obit department and in other shops the morgue.
Keeping each set in its own separate pile, Mr. Foxman began running through these clippings, now and then putting aside one for future consideration. In the midst of this he broke off to take up his desk telephone and, when the girl at the private switchboard upstairs answered, bade her ring for him a certain private number, not to be found in the telephone directory.
“That you, Moreau?” briskly asked Mr. Foxman when, after a short wait, a voice at the other end of the wire spoke. “How are you? … Quite well, thank you. … I want to speak with the general. … Yes, yes, yes, I know that, but this is important—very important. … Yes, I know that too; but I won’t detain him but a minute. … Thanks. … Yes, I’ll wait right here.”
There was another little delay while Mr. Foxman held the receiver to his ear and kept his lips close to the transmitter. Then:
“Good evening, general—Foxman speaking.”
Into the managing editor’s tone was come a soothed and softened deference—something of [309] the same deference which Benny, the head office boy, had used in addressing Mr. Foxman. It was a different tone, very, from the sharpened, almost staccato note that Mr. Foxman had been employing but a minute before. Why not? Moreau was but the great man’s private secretary and this man, whom now he addressed, was the great man himself—General Robert Bruce Lignum, sole proprietor of The Clarion—and the only person, barring himself, from whom Mr. Foxman took orders. Big fleas, you know, have smaller fleas which on them prey; but while preying, the little fleas, if they be little fleas wise in their own generation, are, I take it, likely to cultivate between bites and to use that flattering conversational accent which, the world over, is the most subtle tribute that may be paid by the smaller to the greater and by the greater to the most great. In this agreeably tempered tempo then Mr. Foxman continued, with pauses for his employer’s replies.
“Sorry, general, to have to call you just as you’re starting for the pier, but I was particularly anxious to catch you before you left the house.” Instinctively he lowered his voice, although there was no need for any excess of caution. “General, I think I’ve got that trolley-grab exposé practically lined up. Bogardus told me this afternoon that the third man—you know the one I mean—is ready to talk. It looks to me like a bigger thing even than we thought it might be. It’s a scurvy crew we’re dealing [310] with, but the end justifies the means. Don’t you think so, sir? … Yes, that’s right, too—when thieves fall out honest men get their due. … Sir? … Yes, that’s my idea, too—to spring the first big story right out of a clear sky and then follow up with an editorial campaign and supplementary news stories until we get action in the district-attorney’s office. … How’s that, sir? … Oh, no, indeed, general, not the slightest particle of danger in my opinion. Personally, I think all this talk about floating mines and submarines has been greatly exaggerated. … I think you can go right ahead in perfect safety. You must know, general, that I wouldn’t be giving you this advice if I thought there was the slightest danger. … Well, good-by, general, and pleasant voyage. … Oh, yes, indeed, I’ll surely find some way of keeping you posted about the situation at Albany if anything develops in that quarter. … Well, good-by again, general.”
He hung up the receiver and turned his hands again to the contents of the morgue envelopes. He was still at this when there came at his door a knock.