“I admit that,” said Doane, with a wink, “we need readers and a circulation to justify us in raising advertising rates. This is business versus sentiment.” Just then Mr. Wayland, the stock broker, entered, and, as he took an easy chair, said, “I’ll wager that Doane has just said something biting. There is on his face a smile of derision.” “No, I have been making practical suggestions; that is all. Have been talking about the Plebeian herd, and must have a quart of champagne with which to cleanse my tongue.” A button within easy reach is touched; a waiter appears; takes the order, and soon returns with the wine. “It shall be on me,” said Wayland. “I can afford it. I made a fortune today.” “How?” said Doane. “Did you bankrupt another railroad?” “No; like Joseph I cornered wheat, and made a million. Will you help me spend it?” “Yes. Buy a newspaper, and employ Salmon there. He’s a most expensive luxury,” said Doane. “What reason have you for always jumping on me?” said Salmon. “Did I not safely escort you through seven libel suits last year?” “Yes, and how much of our stock do you now hold in the way of fee?” “Let’s cease this merriment,” said Wayland, in either real or assumed sadness. “I am in mourning. The City of Hamburg has just arrived, and brings the news that ‘La Petite Goldie’ died at sea, and was buried beneath the cruel waves of the unfeeling Atlantic.” “Another $50,000 you will have to credit to profit and loss,” said Doane. “Was that another of Gould’s operative speculations?” asked Salmon. “Yes, gentlemen, she was, and truly I am awfully cut up over the matter. I liked the girl very much, and besides, she had great talent.” “She died of what ailment?” queried the lawyer. “That’s the puzzling thing,” said the broker. “Some dreadful, mysterious ailment, the germs of which floated up from the steerage. The confounded steamer should have been quarantined. The first thing we know New York will be scourged.” “A few thousand useless cattle will be killed off,” said Doane. “A good thing.” “It might lay its heavy hand on you,” said Salmon. “No,” replied Doane, “I am too wicked to die. Satan would refuse me entrance to hell for fear I’d rival him for his kingdom.” “Anyhow,” said Wayland, “I intend to wear crape for a year.” “Bah,” said Doane, “the next pretty face will cure you. You’ll get no sympathy from us.” “See here, Doane. I bought that bottle of wine as a bribe for sympathy, and I shall engage Salmon here to prosecute you for obtaining it under false pretense.” “This possibility of some mysterious epidemic in New York annoys me,” said Doane. “I shall take occasion in tomorrow’s paper, to rake the health officers sharply over the coals,” and for some cause or other, a sickening shudder passed over his frame. “Does it trouble you, Doane?” said Wayland, “if so, let’s go abroad.”