“Would You Let Your Baby Drink Carbolic?”
For the strike editorial had been substituted one of Banneker’s typical “mother-fetchers,” as he termed them, very useful in their way, and highly approved by the local health authorities. This one was on the subject of pure milk. Its association with the excerpt from the Areopagitica (which, having been set for a standing head, was not cut out by the “Killed”) set the final touch of irony upon the matter. Even in his fury Banneker laughed.
He next considered the handwriting of the blue-penciled monosyllable. It was not Marrineal’s blunt, backhand script. Whose was it? Haring’s? Trailing the proof in his hand he went to the business manager’s room.
“Did you kill this?”
“Yes.” Haring got to his feet, white and shaking. “For God’s sake, Mr. Banneker—”
“I’m not going to hurt you—yet. By what right did you do it?”
“Orders.”
“Marrineal’s?”
“Yes.”
With no further word, Banneker strode to the owner’s office, pushed open the door, and entered. Marrineal looked up, slightly frowning.