Words failed Shearson; also motive power, almost. For reckonable seconds
he stood stricken. Then slowly he got under way and rolled through the
door. Once, on the stairs, they heard from him a protracted rumbling
groan. "Ruin," was the one distinguishable word.

It left an echo in Hal's brain, an echo which rang hollowly amongst
misgivings.

"_Is_ it ruin to try and run a newspaper without taking a percentage of
that kind of profits, Mac?" he asked.

"Well, a newspaper can't be too squeamish about its ads." was the
cautious answer.

"Do all newspapers carry that kind of stuff?"

"Not quite. Most of them, though. They need the money."

"What's the matter with business in this town? Everything seems to be
rotten."

Ellis took refuge in a proverb. "Business is business," he stated
succinctly.

"And it's as bad everywhere as here? This is all new to me, you know. I
rather expected to find every concern as decently and humanly run as
Certina."

One swift, suspicious glance Ellis cast upon his superior, but Hal's
face was candor itself. "Well, no," he admitted. "Perhaps it isn't as
bad in some cities. The trouble here is that all the papers are
terrorized or bribed into silence. Until we began hitting out with our
little shillalah, nobody had ever dared venture a peep of disapproval.
So, business got to thinking it could do as it pleased. You can't really
blame business much. Immunity from criticism isn't ever good for the
well-known human race."

Hal took the matter of the "Sewing Aid" swindle home with him for
consideration. Hitherto he had considered advertising only as it
affected or influenced news. Now he began to see it in another light, as
a factor in itself of immense moral moment and responsibility. It was
dimly outlined to his conscience that, as a partner in the profit, he
became also a partner in the enterprise. Thus he faced the question of
the honesty or dishonesty of the advertising in his paper. And this is a
question fraught with financial portent for the honorable journalist.

CHAPTER XXII

PATRIOTS

Worthington's Old Home Week is a gay, gaudy, and profitable institution.
During the six days of its course the city habitually maintains the
atmosphere of a three-ringed circus, the bustle of a county fair, and
the business ethics of the Bowery. Allured by widespread advertising and
encouraged by special rates on the railroads, the countryside for a
radius of one hundred miles pours