“Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “I asked him this morning what’s what, and all he said was; ‘Better get ready to duck in the Press Gallery,’ with that smile of his that may mean fun and may mean murder. Look! There’s Slippery Selden Dana on the floor.”
“That means the P.-U. is in it.”
“Not necessarily. But it means something out of the ordinary. He is n’t spending Montrose Clark’s time on any picayune stuff.”
“You can’t blame Embree if he goes after the newspapers,” said The Record reflectively.
“Fool trick, though. They always get in the last wallop.”
“Look what a raw deal he gets, here in Fenchester. The best he gets from The Record is silent contempt, and The Guardian—well, I don’t know why he has n’t sued The Guardian for libel long ago.”
“What’d be the use?”
“You mean The Guardian is right in practically saying he’s a crook?”
“No. I guess he’s the nearest decent thing we’ve got in this rotten mess of politics,” said Galpin with the experienced political reporter’s cynical view of public men, “unless it’s Magnus Laurens.”
“Then why won’t they give him a fair shake? I don’t mind their going after him editorially. That’s opinion. But to cut him out of the news, that gets my goat a little.”