Accordingly, a half hour later, en route for the midnight train, Standish sought out the _Clarion_ office and demanded an interview with its editor-in-chief. “I guess that’s me,” observed a fat, shirt-sleeved man, who looked up from his task of tinkering with a linotype machine’s inner mysteries. “I’m Mr. Gerrett, editor-in-chief, managing editor, city editor, too. My repertorial staff’s out to supper, this being pay day and he being hungry. Were you wanting to subscribe or—? Take a chair, anyhow,” he broke off, sweeping a pile of proofs off a three-legged stool. “Now, what can I do for you?” “My name is Standish,” began Clive, “and I called to find out why——” “Oh!” The staccato monosyllable served as clearing house for all Gerrett’s geniality, for he froze—as much as a stout and perspiring man can—into editorial super-dignity. Aware that the atmosphere had congealed, but without understanding why, Clive continued: “My agent called here, did he not? And left an advertisement of——” “Yes,” snapped Gerrett, “he did. I was out. He left it with my foreman with the cash for it. I mailed a check for the amount this morning to your League headquarters at Granite.” “But why? The advert——” “The ad.’s in my waste-basket. Now, as this is my busy night, maybe you’ll clear out and let——” “Look here!” said Clive, sternly, and refusing to notice the opened door, “what does this mean?” “It means we don’t want your ads. nor your money.” “Were you too crowded for space and had to leave the advertisement out?” “No, we weren’t. We don’t want any dealings with you or the alleged ‘League’ you’re running. That’s all. Ain’t that plain enough?” “No,” answered Clive, trying to keep cool, “I want a reason.” “You’ll keep on wanting it, then. I’m boss of this office, and——” “The _real_ boss? I doubt it. If you were, what reason would you have for turning away paid advertisements? I may do you an injustice, my friend, but I think you’re acting under orders.” “You’re off!” shouted Gerrett, reddening. “I run this paper as I choose. And I don’t take orders from any man. I——” “Nor passes? Nor freight rebates on paper rolls, and——” “D’ye mean to insult me?” bellowed Gerrett, wallowing forward, threatening as a fat black thundercloud. “I’ll have you know——” “I don’t think,” replied Clive, calmly, and receding not a step, “I don’t think you _could_ be insulted, Mr. Gerrett. You are making rather a pitiable exhibition of yourself. Why not own up to it that you are acting under orders of the ‘Machine,’ whose tool you are? The ‘Machine’ which is so afraid of the truth that it takes pains to muzzle the press. The ‘Machine’ that is so well aware of its own rottenness, it dare not let the people whom it is defrauding hear the other side of the case. Why not admit you are bought?” Gerrett was sputtering unintelligible wrath. “Get out of my office!” he roared at last.