“Why don’t you tell ’em?” asked Mallory lazily.

“I did, once.  I told the President of the United Manufacturers’ Association what I really thought of their attitude toward labor.”

“With what result?”

“He ordered The Courier to fire me.”

“You’re still there.”

“Yes.  But he isn’t.  I went after him on his record.”

“All of which doesn’t sound much like mud-eating, Pop.”

“I’ve done my bit of that in my time, too.  I’ve had jobs to do that a self-respecting swill-hustler wouldn’t touch.  I’ve sworn I wouldn’t do ’em.  And I’ve done ’em, rather than lose my job.  Just as young Banneker will, when the test comes.”

“I’ll bet he won’t,” said Tommy Burt.

Mallory, who had been called away, returned in time to hear this.  “You might ask him to settle the bet,” he suggested.  “I’ve just had him on the ’phone.  He’s coming around.”

“I will,” said Edmonds.

On his arrival Banneker was introduced to those of the men whom he did not know, and seated next to Edmonds.

“We’ve been talking about you, young fellow,” said the veteran.

From most men Banneker would have found the form of address patronizing.  But the thin, knotty face of Edmonds was turned upon him with so kindly a regard in the hollow eyes that he felt an innate stir of knowledge that here was a man who might be a friend.  He made no answer, however, merely glancing at the speaker.  To learn that the denizens of Park Row were discussing him, caused him neither surprise nor elation.  While he knew that he had made hit after hit with his work, he was not inclined to over-value the easily won reputation.  Edmonds’s next remark did not please him.

“We were discussing how much dirt you’d eat to hold your job on The Ledger.”

“The Ledger doesn’t ask its men to eat dirt, Edmonds,” put in Mallory sharply.

“Chop, fried potatoes, coffee, and a stein 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.