"Then when they come along, I'll write for a year for nothing."
"How about me?" asked Ford, "Where do I come in?"
"And me?" asked Connie.
"You can all come in," laughed George. "Geisner shall do the political and get his editor ten years for sedition. Stratton will supply the mild fatherly sociological leaders. Mrs. Stratton shall prove that there can't be any true Art so long as we don't put the police on to everything that is ugly and repulsive. Nellie, here, shall blossom out as the Joan of Arc of women's rights, with a pen for a sword. And Arty we'll keep chained upon the premises and feed him with peppercorns when we want something particularly hot. Ford can retire to painting and pour his whole supply of bile out in one cartoon a week that we'll publish as a Saturday's supplement. Hawkins shall be our own correspondent who'll give the gentle squatter completely away in weekly instalments. And Josie and I'll slash the stuffing out of your 'copy' if you go writing three columns when there's only room for one. We'll boil down on our papers. Every line will be essence of extract. Don't you see how it's done already?"
"We see it," said Nellie, stifling a yawn. "The next thing is to get the unions to see it."
"That's so," retorted George, "so I'll give you my idea to do what you can with."
"We must go," said Nellie, getting up from her chair. "It must be after one and I'm tired."
"It's ten minutes to two," said Ford, having pulled out his watch.
"Why don't you stay all night, Nellie," asked Connie. "We can put Ned up, if he doesn't mind a shake-down. Then we can make a night of it. Geisner is off again on Monday or Tuesday."
"Tuesday," said Geisner, who had gone to the book-shelf again.