of Nicklas-brau," Banneker
specified across the table to the waiter. He studied the mimeographed
bill-of-fare with selective attention. "And a slice of apple pie," he
decided. Without change of tone, he looked up over the top of the menu
at Edmonds slowly puffing his insignificant pipe and said: "I don't like
your assumption, Mr. Edmonds."

"It's ugly," admitted the other, "but you have to answer it. Oh, not to
me!" he added, smiling. "To yourself."

"It hasn't come my way yet."

"It will. Ask any of these fellows. We've all had to meet it. Yes; you,
too, Mallory. We've all had to eat our peck of dirt in the sacred name
of news. Some are too squeamish. They quit."

"If they're too squeamish, they'd never make real newspaper men,"
pronounced McHale. "You can't be too good for your business."

"Just so," said Tommy Burt acidly, "but your business can be too bad for
you."

"There's got to be news. And if there's got to be news there have got to
be men willing to do hard, unpleasant work, to get it," argued Mallory.

"Hard? All right," retorted Edmonds. "Unpleasant? Who cares! I'm talking
about the dirty work. Wait a minute, Mallory. Didn't you ever have an
assignment that was an outrage on some decent man's privacy? Or, maybe
woman's? Something that made you sick at your stomach to have to do? Did
you ever have to take a couple of drinks to give you nerve to ask some
question that ought to have got you kicked downstairs for asking?"

Mallory, flushing angrily, was silent. But McHale spoke up. "Hell! Every
business has its stinks, I guess. What about being a lawyer and serving
papers? Or a manufacturer and having to bootlick the buyers? I tell you,
if the public wants a certain kind of news, it's the newspaper's
business to serve it to 'em; and it's the newspaper man's business to
get it for his paper. I say it's up to the public."

"The public," murmured Edmonds. "Swill-eaters."

"All right! Then give 'em the kind of swill they want," cried McHale.

Edmonds so manipulated his little pipe that it pointed directly at
Banneker. "Would you?" he asked.

"Would I what?"

"Give 'em the kind of swill they want? You seem to like to keep your
hands clean."

"Aren't you asking me your original question in another form?" smiled
the young man.

"You objected to it before."

"I'll answer it now. A friend of mine wrote to me when I went on The
Ledger, advising me always to be ready on a moment's notice to look my
jo