“The public,” murmured Edmonds. “Swill-eaters.”
“All right! Then give ’em the kind of swill they want,” cried McHale.
Edmonds so manipulated his little pipe that it pointed directly at Banneker. “Would you?” he asked.
“Would I what?”
“Give ’em the kind of swill they want? You seem to like to keep your hands clean.”
“Aren’t you asking me your original question in another form?” smiled the young man.
“You objected to it before.”
“I’ll answer it now. A friend of mine wrote to me when I went on The Ledger, advising me always to be ready on a moment’s notice to look my job between the eyes and tell it to go to hell.”
“Yes; I’ve known that done, too,” interpolated Mallory. “But in those cases it isn’t the job that goes.” He pushed back his chair. “Don’t let Pop Edmonds corrupt you with his pessimism, Banneker,” he warned. “He doesn’t mean half of it.”
“Under the seal of the profession,” said the veteran. “If there were outsiders present, it would be different. I’d have to admit that ours is the greatest, noblest, most high-minded and inspired business in the world. Free and enlightened press. Fearless defender of the right. Incorruptible agent of the people’s will. Did I say ‘people’s will’ or people’s swill’? Don’t ask me!”