“Straight!” vociferated McQuiggan. “Straight? Ladies and gents:  the well-known Surtaine Family will now put on their screamin’ farce entitled ‘Honesty is the Best Policy.’”

“When you’re through playing the clown—­” began Hal.

“Straight advertising,” pursued the other.  “Did I really hear them sweet words in Andy Certain’s voice?  No!  Say, somebody ring an alarm-clock on me.  I can’t wake up.”

“I think we’ve heard enough from you, McQuiggan,” warned Hal.

“Do you!” The promoter sprang from his chair and all the latent venom of his temper fumed and stung in the words he poured out.  “Well, take another think.  I’ve got some things to tell you, young feller.  Don’t you come the high-and-holy on me.  You and your smooth, big, phony stuffed-shirt of a father.”

“Here, you!” shouted the leading citizen thus injuriously designated, but the other’s voice slashed through his protest like a blade through pulp.

“Certina!  Ho-oh!  Warranted to cure consumption, warts, heart-disease, softening of the brain, and the bloody pip!  And what is it?  Morphine and booze.”

“You’re a liar,” thundered the outraged proprietor:  “Ten thousand dollars to any one who can show a grain of morphine in it.”

“Changed the formula, have you?  Pure Food Law scared you out of the dope, eh?  Well, even at that it’s the same old bunk.  What about your testimonials?  Fake ’em, and forge ’em, and bribe and blackmail for ’em and then stand up to me and pull the pious plate-pusher stuff about being straight.  Oh, my Gawd!  It’d make a straddle-bug spit at the sun, to hear you.  Why, I’m no saint, but the medical line was too strong for my stomach.  I got out of it.”

“Yes, you did, you dirty little dollar-snatcher!  You got put of it into jail for peddling raw gin—.”

“Don’t you go raking up old muck with me, you rotten big poisoner!” roared McQuiggan:  “or you’ll get the hot end of it.  How about that girl that went batty after taking Cert—­”

“Wait a moment!  Father!  Please!” Hal broke in, aghast at this display.  “We’re not discussing the medical business.  We’re talking advertising.  McQuiggan, yours is refused.  We don’t run that class of matter in the ‘Clarion.’”

“No?  Since when?  You’d better consult an oculist, young Surtaine.”

“If ever this paper carried such a glaring fake as your Streaky Mountain—­”

“Stop right there!  Stop! look! and listen!” He caught up the day’s issue from the floor and flaunted it, riddling the flimsy surface with the stiffened finger of indictment.  “Look at it!  Look at this ad.—­and this—­and this.”  The paper was rent with the vehemence of his indication.  “Put my copy next to that, and it’d come to life and squirm to get away.”

“Nothing there but what every paper takes,” defended Ellis.