“Yes,” said Jeremy shortly.
“Pot of ink; pot o’ glue; pot o’ soft soap and a pair of blinders; there’s your editorial-writer’s outfit. Done any slush-bucketing for Montrose Clark yet?”
“No.”
“Say it as though you did n’t expect to. But you will. Oh, yes; you’ll come to it.”
“Let him be, Nick,” said the gentle old philosopher of foot-garb.
“Did he let you be? Let him listen. One day old Judge Slippery Selden Dana will come puttering into The Record office—”
“On the ball of his sole,” put in the Boot & Shoe Surgeon.
“Pussyfooting. Of course. He’ll suggest to Mr. Farley; that some recognition of Mr. Montrose Clark’s eminent services as a citizen would be timely. Know what that means? Means that Puffy Clark and the P.-U. Co. are getting ready to grab another franchise. Does Mr. Farley see it that way? He does! He remembers a little slice of P.-U. stock in the strong-box. And if Young Feller, here, is good enough with his pen, he wins the job of puffery for the puffiest little public-utility-grafting puff-adder that ever stung a city. And will he see it that way? He will. He’ll remember his little pay envelope at the end of the week, and he’ll come through. It’s a grand little system.”
“Nothing wrong with a system that lets a man get from his employees what he pays for,” defended Jeremy.
“Nothing wrong with your cutting Eli Wade’s throat to order, either. Eh?”