"Thank you, Mr. Shearson. That's all."
To his editorial galley-proof Hal added two lines.
"What's that, Mr. Surtaine?" asked the advertising manager curiously.
"That's outside of your department. But since you ask, I'll tell you. It's an editorial on the kind of swindle that causes tragedies like Maggie Breen's. And the sentence which I have just added, thanks to you, is this:
"'The proprietor of this scheme which drives penniless women to the street or to suicide is John M. Gibbs, principal owner of the Boston Store.'"
Words failed Shearson; also motive power, almost. For reckonable seconds he stood stricken. Then slowly he got under way and rolled through the door. Once, on the stairs, they heard from him a protracted rumbling groan. "Ruin," was the one distinguishable word.
It left an echo in Hal's brain, an echo which rang hollowly amongst misgivings.
"Is it ruin to try and run a newspaper without taking a percentage of that kind of profits, Mac?" he asked.
"Well, a newspaper can't be too squeamish about its ads." was the cautious answer.
"Do all newspapers carry that kind of stuff?"