rial
policy, I step in. Otherwise, I keep out. There's my platform."

Hale nodded. "Let me know how I can help on the epidemic matter," said
he, and took his leave.

"The trouble with really good people," mused McGuire Ellis, "is that
they always expect other people to be as good as they are. And _that's_
expensive," sighed the philosopher, turning back to his desk.

While Ellis and his specially detailed reporter were working out the
story of the Rookeries epidemic in the light of Dr. Elliot's
information, Hal Surtaine, floundering blindly, sought a solution to his
problem, which was the problem of his newspaper. Indeed, it meant, as
far as he could judge, the end of the "Clarion" in a few months, should
he decide to defy Elias M. Pierce. Against the testimony of the injured
nurse, he could scarcely hope to defend the libel suits successfully.
Even though the assessed damages were not heavy enough to wreck him, the
loss of prestige incident to defeat would be disastrous. Moreover,
there was the chance of imprisonment or a heavy fine on the criminal
charge. Furthermore, if he decided to print the account of the epidemic
(always supposing that he could discover what it really was),
practically every local advertiser would desert him in high dudgeon over
the consequent ruin of the centennial celebration. Was it better to
publish an honest paper for the few months and die fighting, or
compromise for the sake of life, and do what good he might through the
agency of a bound, controlled, and tremulous journalistic policy?

For the first time, now that the crisis was upon him, he realized to the
full how profoundly the "Clarion" had become part of his life. At the
outset, only the tool of a casual though fascinating profession, later,
the lever of an expanding and increasing power, the paper had insensibly
intertwined with every fiber of his ambition. To a degree that startled
him he had come to think, feel, and hope in terms of this
thought-machine which he owned, which owned him. It had taken on for him
a character; his own, yet more than his own and greater. For it spoke,
not of his spirit alone, but with a composite voice; sometimes confused,
inarticulate, only semi-expressive; again as with the tongues of
prophecy. His ship was beginning to find herself; to evolve, from the
anarchic clamor of loose effort, a harmony and a personality.

With the thought came a warm glow of loyalty to his fellow workers; to
the men who