“But we are, aren’t we?” persisted Banneker.
“What! Pariahs?” The look which the old-timer bent upon the rising star of the business had in it a quality of brooding and affection. “Son, you’re too young to have come properly to that frame of mind. That comes later. With the dregs of disillusion after the sparkle has died out.”
“But it’s true. You admit it.”
“If an outsider said that we were pariahs I’d call him a liar. But, what’s the use, with you? It isn’t reporting alone. It’s the whole business of news-getting and news-presenting; of journalism. We’re under suspicion. They’re afraid of us. And at the same time they’re contemptuous of us.”
“Why?”
“Because people are mostly fools and fools are afraid or contemptuous of what they don’t understand.”
Banneker thought it over. “No. That won’t do,” he decided. “Men that aren’t fools and aren’t afraid distrust us and despise the business. Edmonds, there’s nothing wrong, essentially, in furnishing news for the public. It’s part of the spread of truth. It’s the handing on of the light. It’s—it’s as big a thing as religion, isn’t it?”
“Bigger. Religion, seven days a week.”
“Well, then—”
“I know, son,” said Edmonds gently. “You’re thirsting for the clear and restoring doctrine of journalism. And I’m going to give you hell’s own heresy. You’ll come to it anyway, in time.” His fierce little pipe glowed upward upon his knotted brows. “You talk about truth, news: news and truth as one and the same thing. So they are. But newspapers aren’t after news: not primarily. Can’t you see that?”