“By Jove!” cried Ames. “You're just the man I want to see, Mr. Carveth. I'm from the News.”
“Are you now?” Mr. Carveth was frankly pleased. “What's your name?”
“Ames—Bentley Ames.”
“Excuse me—” and Mr. Carveth turned in his seat. “Willie, step here!” he called, and the reader of Emerson put aside his book. “Mr. Ames, I want you should know my secretary, W. C. B. McPherson, William Cullen Bryant McPherson,” said Mr. Carveth, when the secretary stood at his elbow. “He's a newspaper boy, too—does the locals on the Marysville Clarion. Mr. Ames, of the Capital City News, Willie.”
W. G. B. McPherson gave Ames an embarrassed smile.
“Not a newspaper man in the sense that Mr. Ames is.” It was evident he stood in awe of this more metropolitan member of the craft.
“I don't know about that,” said Mr. Carveth. “I've always considered the Clarion a mighty clean sheet.”
Ames smiled enigmatically. He was thinking of Mr. Carveth's rival, General Pogue, “Slippery Dick, who lived with his ear next the ground,” and of James Cartwright Smith, who was back of the general. Carveth resumed the conversation.
“Ever been to Marysville? It's named after my wife; my factory's there.”
Ames had not been to Marysville; he admitted, however, that he had heard of the place.