e trusted some time," he sighed finally; "I suppose
it might just as well be now--but a little more priming would have
helped. Just a little more."

"Oh, the kid will knuckle under, that's certain," snarled Bassett.
"There's no doubt of _that_. This whole proposition is doomed to
failure. It's too good to be true, altogether too good. I tell you,
Good, you're asking too much of these people. You're trying to make
water rise higher than its source. You're trying to make them prove
superior to their whole history, their environment, their friends,
everything they've got."

"People prove superior to those things every day," said Good mildly.

"Not when they have to pay as big a price as you're asking."

"Don't you know there are people who have to be made to pay a big price
before they think a thing's worth anything?"

Bassett snorted and bit his cigar clear through. "You're the damnedest,
most idiotic optimist I ever hope to see!" he cried. Then they all
laughed cheerlessly and relapsed into their moody, waiting silence.

At that very moment, in Jenkins' private office, Roger Wynrod leaned
back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He puffed thoughtfully for
a moment or two without speaking.

"See if I've got this straight, Joe," he said finally. "As I understand
your proposition, it's this: As long as we lie down and play good dog,
we're a _good_ advertising medium. When we get up and bark at something
we think ought to be barked at, then we're a _bad_ advertising medium."

"That's one way of expressing it, Roger," laughed Faxon.

Suddenly the young man's quiet, thoughtful demeanour changed. He leaned
forward and his jaw hardened. "In other words, when you spend money in
advertising with us it's merely a figure of speech. Your advertising
appropriation is a sort of slush fund. It's the price you pay for
keeping us silent on things you want kept silent. Is that straight?"

"I wouldn't put it just that way. But ..."

"Well, then, suppose,--just suppose, mind you,--suppose we continue on
the line of thought expressed in this article that irritated you people
so much this morning, what then?"

Faxon leaned forward and his fist came down on the desk with a smash.
"Wynrod," he said sharply, "Corey & Company has less than six thousand
lines of its contract with _The Dispatch_ remaining. If you continue to
attack us in this way, I can inform you that that contract will not be
renewed."

"I see," said Roger quiet