“I have come about a private matter,” he said, looking meaningly at Betty, who got up and began to move toward the door. Smith nodded to her, and she went out.
“Say,” said Mr. Parker, “hasn’t something happened to this paper these last few weeks? It used not to take such an interest in things, used it?”
“You are very right,” responded Smith. “Comrade Renshaw’s methods were good in their way. I have no quarrel with Comrade Renshaw. But he did not lead public thought. He catered exclusively to children with water on the brain and men and women with solid ivory skulls. I feel that there are other and larger publics. I cannot content myself with ladling out a weekly dole of predigested mental breakfast food. I—”
“Then you, I guess,” said Mr. Parker, “are responsible for this Broster Street thing?”
“At any rate, I approve of it and put it in the paper. If any husky guy, as Comrade Maloney would put it, is anxious to aim a swift kick at the author of that article, he can aim it at me.”
“I see,” said Mr. Parker. He paused. “It said ‘Number one’ in the paper. Does that mean there are going to be more of them?”
“There is no flaw in your reasoning. There are to be several more.”
Mr. Parker looked at the door. It was closed. He bent forward.
“See here,” he said, “I’m going to talk straight, if you’ll let me.”
“Assuredly, Comrade Parker. There must be no secrets, no restraint between us. I would not have you go away and say to yourself, ‘Did I make my meaning clear? Was I too elusive?’”
Mr. Parker scratched the floor with the point of a gleaming shoe. He seemed to be searching for words.
“Say on,” urged Smith. “Have you come to point out some flaw in that article? Does it fall short in any way of your standard for such work?”
Mr. Parker came to the point.
“If I were you,” he said, “I should quit it. I shouldn’t go on with those articles.”
“Why?” enquired Smith.
“Because,” said Mr. Parker.
He looked at Smith, and smiled slowly, an ingratiating smile. Smith did not respond.
“I do not completely gather your meaning,” he said. “I fear I must ask you to hand it to me with still more breezy frankness. Do you speak from purely friendly motives? Are you advising me to discontinue the series because you fear that it will damage the literary reputation of the paper? Do you speak solely as a literary connoisseur? Or are there other reasons?”
Mr. Parker leaned forward.
“The gentleman whom I represent—”
“Then this is no matter of your own personal taste? There is another?”
“See here, I’m representing a gentleman who shall be nameless, and I’ve come on his behalf to tip you off to quit this game. These articles of yours are liable to cause him inconvenience.”
“Financial? Do you mean that he may possibly have to spend some of his spare doubloons in making Broster Street fit to live in?”
“It’s not so much the money. It’s the publicity. There are reasons why he would prefer not to have it made too public that he’s the owner of the tenements down there.”
“Well, he knows what to do. If he makes Broster Street fit for a not-too-fastidious pig to live in—”
Mr. Parker coughed. A tentative cough, suggesting that the situation was now about to enter upon a more delicate phase.
“Now, see here, sir,” he said, “I’m going to be frank. I’m going to put my cards on the table, and see if we can’t fix something up. Now, see here. We don’t want any unpleasantness. You aren’t in this business for your health, eh? You’ve got your living to make, same as everybody else, I guess. Well, this is how it stands. To a certain extent, I don’t mind owning, since we’re being frank with one another, you’ve got us—that’s to say, this gentleman I’m speaking of—in a cleft stick. Frankly, that Broster Street story of yours has attracted attention—I saw it myself in two Sunday papers—and if there’s going to be any more of them—Well, now, here’s a square proposition. How much do you want to stop those articles? That’s straight. I’ve been frank with you, and I want you to be frank with me. What’s your figure? Name it, and if you don’t want the earth I guess we needn’t quarrel.”
He looked expectantly at Smith. Smith, gazing sadly at him through his monocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old Roman senator dealing with the enemies of the Republic.
“Comrade Parker,” he said, “I fear that you have allowed your intercourse with this worldly city to undermine your moral sense. It is useless to dangle rich bribes before the editorial eyes.
Mr. Parker rose.
“Nothing doing, then?” he said.
“Nothing.”
Mr. Parker picked up his hat.
“See here,” he said, a grating note in his voice, hitherto smooth and conciliatory, “I’ve no time to fool away talking to you. I’ve given you your chance. Those stories are going to be stopped. And if you’ve any sense in you at all, you’ll stop them yourself before you get hurt. That’s all I’ve got to say, and that goes.”
