“How so?” said Doane, ignoring the covert sarcasm of his friend.
“I will illustrate,” said the lawyer: “About a year ago, in this city, a man was hacked to pieces. With him lived a Polish immigrant. He knew but little of the language or customs of the country. A sensational newspaper put its blood-hound-detective-reporters on the trail. They convicted Skinoski, only to find a few months later, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that a slight mistake had been made, and after all they had electrocuted the wrong man.”
“Yes, a little error of that kind will occur, you know,” said Doane, unfeelingly, “but then it only removed another of these filthy, foreign paupers. We have too many of these cattle on hand now. Not that I have any very great respect for the native toiler.”
“What is your objection to him?” said Salmon.
“I like the laboring man well enough in his way,” said Doane, “but I wish he would take a bath once in a while. There is too little sweat on his brow and too much on his hands to suit me.”
“Yet your paper parades the fact,” said Salmon, “that it fights his battles.”
“I admit that,” said Doane, with a wink, “we need readers and a circulation to justify us in raising advertising rates. This is business versus sentiment.”
Just then Mr. Wayland, the stock broker, entered, and, as he took an easy chair, said, “I’ll wager that Doane has just said something biting. There is on his face a smile of derision.”
“No, I have been making practical suggestions; that is all. Have been talking about the Plebeian herd, and must have a quart of champagne with which to cleanse my tongue.”
A button within easy reach is touched; a waiter appears; takes the order, and soon returns with the wine.