“We are on our way to the Labor Temple. If you will come there in a couple of hours, we will give you an interview.”
“But I must have a story for our first edition, that goes to press before that.”
I had Carpenter by the arm, and kept him firmly walking. I could not get rid of the reporter, but I was resolved to get my warning spoken, regardless of anything. Said I: “This is a matter extremely urgent for you to understand, Mr. Carpenter. This young man represents a newspaper, and anything you say to him will be read in the course of a few hours by perhaps a hundred thousand people. If it is found especially senational, the Continental Press may put it on its wires, and it will go to several hundred papers all over the country—”
“Twelve hundred and thirty-seven papers,” corrected the young man.
“So you see, it is necessary that you should be careful what you say—far more so than if you were speaking to a handful of Mexican laborers or Jewish housewives.”
Said Carpenter: “I don't understand what you mean. When I speak, I speak the truth.”
“Yes, of course,” I replied—and meantime I was racking my poor wits figuring out how to present this strange acquaintance of mine most tactfully to the world. I knew the reporter would not tarry long; he would grab a few sentences, and rush away to telephone them in.
“I'll tell you what I'm free to tell,” I began. “This gentleman is a healer, a man of very remarkable gifts. Mental healing, you understand.”
“I get you,” said the reporter. “Some religion?”
“Mr. Carpenter teaches a new religion.”