"If he says so, it's right," replied Ellis.
"What do you call that?" pursued the speaker.
"Murder. I call it murder." Max Veltman, who sat just beyond the speaker, half rose from his chair. "The men who run the road ought to be tried for murder."
"Oh, you can call it that, all right, in one of your Socialist meetings," returned the reporter genially. "But I can't."
"Why can't you?" demanded Hal.
"The railroad people would shut down on news to the 'Clarion.' I couldn't get a word out of them on anything. What good's a reporter who can't get news? You'd fire me in a week."
"Can you prove the facts?"
"I can."
"Write it for to-morrow's paper. I'll see that you don't lose your place."
Marchmont sat down, blinking. Again there was silence around the table, but this time it was electric, with the sense of flashes to come. The slow drawl of Lindsay, the theater reporter, seemed anti-climatic as he spoke up, slouched deep in his seat.