nearned
money, perhaps he wouldn't talk so glibly about heredity."

Thence the interview pursued a course of indirect reflection upon the
matter and method of the patent medicine trade, as exemplified in
Certina and its allied industries. The top button of Dr. Surtaine's
glossy morning coat, as he read, seemed in danger of flying off into
infinite space. His powerful hands opened and closed slowly. Leaning
forward he reached for the telephone, but checked himself.

"Mr. Pierce seems to have let go both barrels at once," he said with a
strong effort of control.

"Pretty little exhibition of temper, isn't it?" said Hal, smiling.

"Temper's expensive. Perhaps we'll teach Elias M. Pierce that lesson
before we're through. You remember it, too, next time you start in on a
muckraking jag."

"Our muckraking, as you call it, isn't a question of temper, Dad," said
Hal earnestly. "It's a question of policy. What the 'Clarion' is doing,
is done because we're trying to be a newspaper. We've got to stick to
that. I've given my word."

"Who to?"

"To the men on the staff."

"What's more," put in McGuire Ellis, turning at the door on his way out
to see a caller, "the fellows have got hold of the idea. That's what
gives the 'Clarion' the go it's got. We're all rowing one stroke."

"And the captain can't very well quit in mid-race." Hal took up the
other's metaphor, as the door closed behind him. "So you see, Dad, I've
got to see it through, no matter what it costs me."

The father's rich voice dropped to a murmur. "Hasn't it cost you
something more than money, already, Boyee? I understand Miss Esme is a
pretty warm friend of Pierce's girl."

Hal winced.

"All right, Boyee. I don't want to pry. But lots of things come quietly
to the old man's ear. You've got a right to your secrets."

"It isn't any secret, Dad. In fact, it isn't anything any more," said
Hal, smiling wanly. "Yes, the price was pretty high. I don't think any
other will ever be so high."

Dr. Surtaine heaved his bulk out of the chair and laid a heavy arm
across his son's shoulder.

"Boyee, you and I don't agree on a lot of things. We're going to keep on
not agreeing about a lot of things. You think I'm an old fogy with
low-brow standards. I think you've got a touch of that prevalent disease
of youth, fool-in-the-head. But, I guess, as father and son, pal and
pal, we're pretty well suited,--eh?"

"Yes," said Hal. There was that in the monosyllable which