“If you mean the Territon story,” growled Edmonds, “it’s rotten.”
“Precisely. I thank you for your g-golden opinion. Rotten. Exactly as intended.”
“Put a woman’s good name on trial and sentence it on hearsay without appeal or recourse.”
“There is always the danger of going too far along those lines,” pointed out Marrineal judicially.
“Pardon me, all-wise Proprietor. The d-danger lies in not going far enough. The frightful p-peril of being found dull.”
“The Territon story assays too thin in facts, as we’ve put it out. If Mrs. Territon doesn’t leave her husband now for McLaurin,” opined Marrineal, “we are in a difficult position. I happen to know her and I very much doubt—”
“Doubt not at all, d-doubting Tertius. The very fact of our publishing the story will force her hand. It’s an achievement, that story. No other p-paper has a line of it.”
“Not more than one other would touch it, in its present form,” said Banneker. “It’s too raw.”
“The more virtue to us. I r-regard that story as an inspiration. Nobody could have brought it off b-but me. ‘A god, a god their Severance ruled,’” punned the owner of the name.
“Beelzebub, god of filth and maggots,” snarled Edmonds.