“Soft words? Hard facts! The soul of a louse!”
“Who the devil are you?” demanded Jeremy.
“A Socialist,” repeated the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. “Don’t mind him.”
Milliken rose and stood before the subject of his com-temptuous phrase; long, lean, dry, and bitter. “Me?” said he. “I’m a man. I’m no hired pen. I write for The Free-Thinker, when I write.”
“Rest of the time he sets type on The Record,” explained Wade.
“That’s it. Many a time I’ve run the stick over your stuff.”
“It seems to have made an unfavorable impression on you,” remarked Jeremy.
“Oh, you can write.” The other flung the concession to him condescendingly. “I grant you that. What good does that do you? You’ve got to trim your facts to your owner’s orders, have n’t you?”
“Not facts,” denied the reporter with some heat. “Facts are facts. I don’t trim them for anybody.”
“Nobody trims them after they’re written, either, I suppose.”