t be
admitted that the average man, especially the day laborer, reads his
yellow journal avidly, and--"

"Yes, he does," returned the girl. "And why? The average man, as
you call him, is a victim of _the most pernicious social system
ever devised by the human mind_! Swept along in the mad rush of
commercialism, or ground down beneath its ruthless wheels, his
jaded, jarred nerves and his tired mind cry out for artificial
stimulation, for something that will for a moment divert his wearied
thought from his hopeless situation. The Church offers him little
that is tangible this side of the grave. But whiskey, drugs, and
yellow journalism do. Can't you see, Mr. Hitt--can't you, Ned--that
the world's cry for sensationalism is but a cry for something that
will make it forget its misery for a brief moment? The average man
feels the superficiality of the high speed of this century of mad
rush; he longs as never before for a foundation of truth upon which to
rest; he is tired of theological fairy-tales; he is desperately
tired of sin, and sickness, and dying. He cares little about a
promised life beyond the grave. He wants help here and now to solve
his problems. What does the press offer him? Little beyond a recount
of his own daily miseries, and reports of graft and greed, and
accounts of vulgar displays of material wealth that he has not and
can not have. And these reports divert his jaded mind for a moment and
give him a false, fleeting sense of pleasure--and then leave him
sunk deeper than before in despair, and in hatred of existing
conditions!"

"The girl is right," said Hitt, turning to Haynerd. "And we knew it,
of course. But we have let our confidence slip. This steam-calliope
age reflects the human-mind struggle for something other than its own
unsatisfying ideas. It turns to thrills; it expresses its restlessness
and dissatisfaction with itself by futurist and cubist art, so-called;
by the rattle and vibration of machinery; by flaring billboards that
insult every sense of the artistic; and by the murk and muck of yellow
journalism, with its hideous colored supplements and spine-thrilling
tales. So much for the reader. But the publisher himself--well, he
battens materially, of course, upon the tired victims of our degrading
social system. He sees but the sordid revenue in dollars and cents.
Beyond that his morals do not extend."

"And they can't," said Haynerd. "Decent journalism wouldn't
pay--doesn't--never did!