“Well Mike, I’m a modest man. I had something to do with it.”
“It’s a rotten business!”
“What!”
“I said it was a rotten business.”
“The commercial interests of the city demanded it. Do you think I will stand idly by and see a bunch of half-baked reformers shake down the business institutions of Chicago?”
“John, they are right.”
“O yes, I suppose if you take the mamby-pamby, hysterical, sentimental end of it, any campaign that hits at vice is right.”
“It was a great movement. Mary Randall is a fine girl. You’ll live to regret that you helped to thwart her.”
“Pshaw, what’s the matter with you, man? You’re blood seems to be turning to milk. The papers will howl for a few days and then they’ll forget it. We’ll invite them to. We’ll suggest that if they don’t forget it the interests we represent may feel called upon to cut down their advertising. They’ll forget it all right.”
“No, John,” Grogan spoke deliberately. “You can’t kill off a great and righteous movement by choking a few newspapers. The newspapers are powerful but their power has its limits. That girl has built a fire under this town that will rage in spite of you or me, or any one else. We can’t stop it.” Grogan rose. “That’s all,” he said, “I just dropped in to let you know how I feel about it. I thought I might be able to persuade you to get out of this fight. I guess, John, you’re incorrigible. Well, no hard feelings.”