"Well I tell you that they've no nose for news—no real instinct—and they might as well write for the backs of the magazines."
"They've got to acquire news instinct! Bang it into 'em, Trinkle! Rub their noses in it! I'll have those pups understand that if ever they expect to see any inheritance from me they'll have to prepare themselves to step into my shoes! They'll have to know the whole business—from window-washer to desk!—and they've got to like it, too—every bit of it! You keep 'em at it if it kills 'em, Trinkle. Understand?"
"It'll kill more than those gifted young literary gentlemen," said Trinkle darkly.
"What do you mean by that?"
"It will kill a few dozen good stories. We're going to murder a big one now. But it's your funeral."
"That Adirondack story?"
"Exactly. It's as good as dead."
"Trinkle! Listen to me. How are we going to make men of those pups if we don't rouse their pride? I tell you a man grows to meet the opportunity. The bigger the opportunity the bigger he grows—or he blows up! Put those boys up against the biggest job of the year and it's worth five years' liberal education to them. That's my policy. Isn't it a good one?"
Mr. Trinkle said: "It's your paper. I don't give a damn."
Mr. Melnor glared at him.