“And seven people got killed for it.  I understand the legislature is going to ask why, mainly because of our story and editorial.”

“There you are!  Sicking a pack of demagogues onto the Mid-and-Mud.  How can it make profits and pay your dividends if that kind of thing keeps up?”

“I don’t know that I need dividends earned by slaughtering people,” said Hal slowly.

“Maybe you don’t need the dividends, but there’s plenty of people that do, people that depend on ’em.  Widows and orphans, too.”

“Oh, that widow-and-orphan dummy!” cried Hal.  “What would the poor, struggling railroads ever do without it to hide behind!”

“You talk like Ellis,” reproved his father.  “Boyee, I don’t want you to get too much under his influence.  He’s an impractical will-o’-the-wisp chaser.  Just like all the writing fellows.”

By this time they had reached the “Clarion” Building.

“Come in, Dad,” invited Hal, “and we’ll talk to Ellis about Old Home Week.  He’s with you there, anyway.”

“Oh, he’s all right aside from his fanatical notions,” said the other as they mounted the stairs.

The associate editor nodded his greetings from above a pile of left-over copy.

“Old Home Week?” he queried.  “Let’s see, when does it come?”

“In less than six months.  It isn’t too early to give it a start, is it?” asked Hal Surtaine.

“No.  It’s news any time, now.”

“More than that,” said Dr. Surtaine.  “It’s advertising.  I can turn every ad. that goes out to the ‘Clarion.’”

“Last year we got only the pickings,” remarked Ellis.

“Last year your owner wasn’t the son of the committee’s chairman.”

“By the way, Dad, I’ll have to resign that secretaryship.  Every minute of my spare time I’m going to put in around this office.”

“I guess you’re right.  But I’m sorry to lose you.”

“Think how much more I can do for the celebration with this paper than I could as secretary.”

“Right, again.”

“Some one at the breakfast,” observed Hal, “mentioned the Rookeries, and Wayne shut him up.  What are the Rookeries?  I’ve been trying to remember to ask.”

The other two looked at each other with raised eyebrows.  As well might one have asked, “What is the City Hall?” in Worthington.  Ellis was the one to answer.

“Hell’s hole and contamination.  The worst nest of tenements in the State.  Two blocks of ’em, owned by our best citizens.  Run by a political pull.  So there’s no touching ’em.”

“What’s up there now; more murders?” asked the Doctor.

“Somebody’ll be calling it that if it goes much further,” replied the newspaper man.  “I don’t know what the official alias of the trouble is.  If you want details, get Wayne.”

In response to a telephone call the city editor presented his lank form and bearded face at the door of the sanctum.  “The Rookeries deaths?” he said.  “Oh, malaria—­for convenience.”