Severance waved a graceful hand.  “Prostitution is the profession of all successful journalism which looks at itself honestly.  Why not play the pander frankly?—­among ourselves, of course.  Perhaps I’m offending you, Mr. Banneker.”

“You’re interesting me.  But, ‘among ourselves’ you say.  You’re not a newspaper man; you haven’t the traditions.”

“Therefore I haven’t the blind spots.  I’m not fooled by the sentimentalism of the profession or the sniveling claims of being an apostle of public enlightenment.  If enlightenment pays, all very well.  But it’s circulation, not illumination, that’s the prime desideratum.  Frankly, I’d feed the public gut with all it can and will stand.”

“Even to the extent of keeping the Tallman divorce scandal on the front page for a week consecutively.  You won’t pretend that, as news, it’s worth it.”

“Give me a definition of news,” retorted the expert.  “The Tallman story won’t alter the history of the world.  But it has its—­well, its specialized value for our purposes.”

“You mean,” said Banneker, deliberately stimulating his own growing nausea, “that it makes the public’s mind itch.”

“It’s a pretty filthy and scabby sort of animal, the public, Mr. Banneker.  We’re not trying to reform its morals in our news columns, I take it.”

“No.  No; we’re not.  Still—­”

“That’s the province of your editorials,” went on the apostle of titillation smoothly.  “You may in time even educate them up to a standard of decency where they won’t demand the sort of thing we’re giving them now.  But our present business with the news columns is to catch them for you to educate.”

“Quite so!  You lure them into the dive where I wait to preach them a sermon.”

After that conversation Banneker definitely decided that Severance’s activities must be curbed.  But when he set about it, he suffered an unpleasant surprise.  Marrineal, thoroughly apprised of the new man’s activities (as he was, by some occult means of his own, of everything going on in the office), stood fast by the successful method, and let Banneker know, tactfully but unmistakably, that Severance, who had been transferred to the regular payroll at a highly satisfactory figure, was to have a free hand.  So the ex-religious editor continued to stroll leisurely through his unauthoritative and influential routine, contributing his commentary upon the news as it flowed in.  He would saunter over to the make-up man’s clotted desk, run his eye over the dummy of the morrow’s issue, and inquire;

“Wasn’t there a shooting scrape over a woman in a big West-Side apartment?...  Being kept by the chap that was shot, wasn’t she?...  Oh, a bank clerk?...  Well, that’s a pretty dull-looking seventh page.  Why not lift this text of the new Suburban Railways Bill and spread the shooting across three columns?  Get Sanderson to work out a diagram and do one of his filmy line drawings of the girl lying on the couch.  And let’s be sure to get the word ‘Banker’ into the top head.”