Then began one of those scenes of bullying and browbeating to which every newspaper, not at once powerful and honest enough to command the fear and respect of its advertisers, is at some time subjected.  Haring, the victim personifying the offending organ, was stretched upon the rack and put to the question.  What explanation had he to offer of The Patriot’s breach of faith?

He had none, had the miserable business manager.  No one could regret it more than he.  But, really, gentlemen, to call it a breach of faith—­

What else was it?  Wasn’t the paper turning on its own advertisers?

Well; in a sense.  But not—­

But nothing!  Wasn’t it trying to undermine their legitimate business?

Not intentionally, Mr. Haring was (piteously) sure.

Intentionally be damned!  Did he expect to carry their advertising on one page and ruin their business on another?  Did he think they were putting money into The Patriot—­a doubtful medium for their business, at best—­to cut their own throats?  They’d put it to him reasonably, now; who, after all, paid for the getting out of The Patriot?  Wasn’t it the advertisers?

Certainly, certainly, gentlemen.  Granted.

Could the paper run a month, a fortnight, a week without advertising?

No; no!  It couldn’t.  No newspaper could.

Then if the advertisers paid the paper’s way, weren’t they entitled to some say about it?  Didn’t it have a right to give ’em at least a fair show?

Indeed, gentlemen, if he, Haring, were in control of the paper—­

Then, why; why the hell was a cub of an editor allowed to cut loose and jump their game that way?  They could find other places to spend their money; yes, and get a better return for it.  They’d see The Patriot, and so on, and so forth.

Mr. Haring understood their feelings, sympathized, even shared them. 
Unfortunately the editorial page was quite out of his province.

Whose province was it, then?  Mr. Banneker’s, eh?  And to whom was Mr. Banneker responsible?  Mr. Marrineal, alone?  All right!  They would see Mr. Marrineal.

Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was out of town. (Fiction.)

Well, in that case, Banneker.  They’d trust themselves to show him which foot he got off on.  They’d teach (two of them, in their stress of emotion, said “learn”; they were performing this in chorus) Banneker—­

Oh, Mr. Banneker wasn’t there, either. (Haring, very terrified, and having built up an early conception of the Wild West Banneker from the clean-up of the dock gang, beheld in his imagination dejected members of the committee issuing piecemeal from the doors and windows of the editorial office, the process being followed by an even more regrettable exodus of advertising from the pages of The Patriot.)

Striving to be at once explanatory and propitiatory to all and sundry, Haring was reduced to inarticulate, choking interjections and paralytic motions of the hands, when a member of the delegation, hitherto silent, spoke up.