Ban," she added
wistfully, "does it cost a very great deal to start a new paper?"
"Yes. Or to buy an old one."
"I have money of my own, you know," she ventured.
He fondled her hand. "That isn't even a temptation," he replied.
But it was. For a paper of his own was farther away from him than it had
ever been. That morning he had received his statement from his broker.
To date his losses on Union Thread were close to ninety thousand
dollars.
Who shall measure the spreading and seeding potentialities of a
thistle-down or a catchy phrase? Within twenty-four hours after the
appearance of Banneker's editorial, the apocryphal boast of Mayor Laird
to his wife had become current political history. Current? Rampant,
rather. Messenger boys greeted each other with "Dearie, Mr. Masters
calls me Bob." Brokers on 'Change shouted across a slow day's bidding,
"What's your cute little pet name? Mine's Bobbie." Huge buttons appeared
with miraculous celerity in the hands of the street venders inscribed,
"Call me Bob but Vote for Marrineal"
Vainly did Judge Enderby come out with a statement to the press,
declaring the whole matter a cheap and nasty fabrication, and
challenging The Patriot to cite its authority. The damage already done
was irreparable.
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