“Dangerous?  To whom?”

“To the established order.  To the present system.  Why, son, all we Socialists ask is fair play.  Give us an even chance for labor, for the proletariat; an even show before the courts, an open forum in the newspapers, the right to organize as capital organizes, and we’ll win.  If we can’t win, we deserve to lose.  I say that men like Willis Enderby are our strongest supporters.”

“Probably he thinks his side will win, under the strict rules of the game.”

“Of course.  But if he didn’t, he’d still be for fair play, to the last inch.”

“That’s a pretty fine thing to say of a man, Pop.”

“It’s a pretty fine man,” said Edmonds.

“What does Enderby want?  What is he after?”

“For himself?  Nothing.  It’s something to be known as the ablest honest lawyer in New York.  Or, you can turn it around and say he’s the honestest able lawyer in New York.  I think, myself, you wouldn’t be far astray if you said the ablest and honestest.  No; he doesn’t want anything more than what he’s got:  his position, his money, his reputation.  Why should he?  But it’s going to be forced on him one of these days.”

“Politically?”

“Yes.  Whatever there is of leadership in the reform element here centers in him.  It’s only a question of time when he’ll have to carry the standard.”

“I’d like to be able to fall in behind him when the time comes.”

“On The Ledger?” grunted Edmonds.

“But I shan’t be on The Ledger when the time comes.  Not if I can find any other place to go.”

“Plenty of places,” affirmed Edmonds positively.

“Yes; but will they give me the chance I want?”

“Not unless you make it for yourself.  But let’s canvass ’em.  You want a morning paper.”

“Yes.  Not enough salary in the evening field.”

“Well:  you’ve thought of The Sphere first, I suppose.”

“Naturally.  I like their editorial policy.  Their news policy makes me seasick.”

“I’m not so strong for the editorials.  They’re always for reform and never for progress.”

“Ah, but that’s epigram.”

“It’s true, nevertheless.  The Sphere is always tiptoeing up to the edge of some decisive policy, and then running back in alarm.  What of The Observer?  They’re looking for new blood.”

“The Observer!  O Lord!  Preaches the eternal banalities and believes them the eternal verities.”

“Epigram, yourself,” grinned Edmonds.  “Well, The Monitor?”

“The three-card Monitor, and marked cards at that.”

“Yes; you’d have to watch the play.  The Graphic then?”

“Nothing but an ornamental ghost.  The ghost of a once handsomely kept lady.  I don’t aspire to write daily epitaphs.”

“And The Messenger I suppose you wouldn’t even call a kept lady.  Too common.  Babylonian stuff.  But The Express is respectable enough for anybody.”