“Quit.”
Banneker sighed. “It’s so easy for you.”
“Not so easy as you think, son. Even though there’s a lot of stuff being put over in the news columns that makes me sore and sick. Marrineal’s little theory of using news as a lever is being put into practice pretty widely. Also we’re selling it.”
“Selling our news columns?”
“Some of ’em. For advertising. You’re well out of any responsibility for that department. I’d resign to-morrow if it weren’t for the fact that Marrineal still wants to cocker up the labor crowd for his political purposes, and so gives me a free hand in my own special line. By the way, he’s got the Veridian matter all nicely smoothed out. Oh, my, yes! Fired the general manager, put in all sorts of reforms, recognized the union, the whole programme! That’s to spike McClintick’s guns if he tries to trot out Veridian again as proof that Marrineal is, at heart, anti-labor.”
“Is he?”
“He’s anti-anything that’s anti-Marrineal, and pro-anything that’s pro-Marrineal. Haven’t you measured him yet? All policy, no principle; there’s Mr. Tertius Marrineal for you.... Ban, it’s really you that holds me to this shop.” Through convolutions of smoke from his tiny pipe, the old stager regarded the young star of journalism with a quaint and placid affection. “Whatever rotten stuff is going on in the business and news department, your page goes straight and speaks clear.... I wonder how long Marrineal will stand for it ... I wonder what he intends for the next campaign.”
“If my proprietor runs for office, I can’t very well not support him,” said Banneker, troubled.
“Not very well. The pinch will come as to what you’re going to do about Laird. According to my private information, he’s coming back at The Patriot.”
“For my editorials on the Combined franchise?”