"I say," repeated Paul earnestly, "what's the matter with your father printing the March Hare? He prints the Echo. Don't you believe he'd print our paper too?"
Melville was plainly disconcerted.
"I—I—don't know," he managed to stammer uneasily. "You see, the Echo office is such a darn busy place. My father is driven most to death. Besides, we couldn't pay much. It wouldn't be worth the bother to the Echo."
"Maybe not," said Paul. "But don't you think if your father knew we were trying to run a decent paper he might like to help us out? Who knows but some of us may become distinguished journalists when we grow up? There may be real geniuses in our midst—celebrities."
"Great Scott, Paul, but you have got a wily tongue! You've kissed the Blarney Stone if ever man has!"
But Paul was not to be cajoled from his purpose.
"Won't you put it up to your Pater when you go home, Cart?"
"I ask him!" exclaimed Melville, drawing back a step or two. "I couldn't, Kip. Don't put me in such a hole. I wouldn't dare. Straight goods, I wouldn't. You don't know my dad. Why, he wouldn't even hear me out. He'd say at the outset that it was all rot and that he couldn't be bothered with such a scheme."
"You absolutely refuse to ask him?"
Melville turned a wretched face toward Paul.