"Throw it out!" repeated the other bitterly. "That's easy enough said." "And easily enough done." "It's out already. Taken out by early notice this morning." "That's all right, then." "_Is_ it all right!" boomed Shearson. "_Is_ it! You won't think so when you hear the rest of it." "Try me." "Do you know _who_ the Sewing Aid Association is?" "No." "It's John M. Gibbs! That's who it is!" "Yell louder, Shearson. It may save you from apoplexy," advised McGuire Ellis with tender solicitude. "And we lose every line of the Boston Store advertising, that I worked so hard to get back." "That'll hurt," allowed Ellis. "Hurt! It draws blood, that does. That Sewing Aid Association is Gibbs's scheme to supply the children's department of his store. Why couldn't you find out who you were hitting, Mr. Surtaine?" demanded Shearson pathetically, "before you went and mucksed everything up this way? See what comes of all this reform guff." "Are you sure that John M. Gibbs is back of that sewing-girl ad?" "Sure? Didn't he call me up this morning and raise the devil?" "Thank you, Mr. Shearson. That's all." To his editorial galley-proof Hal added two lines. "What's that, Mr. Surtaine?" asked the advertising manager curiously. "That's outside of your department. But since you ask, I'll tell you. It's an editorial on the kind of swindle that causes tragedies like Maggie Breen's. And the sentence which I have just added, thanks to you, is this: "'The proprietor of this scheme which drives penniless women to the street or to suicide is John M. Gibbs, principal owner of the Boston Store.'" Words failed Shearson; also motive power, almost. For reckonable seconds he stood stricken. Then slowly he got under way and rolled through the door. Once, on the stairs, they heard from him a protracted rumbling groan. "Ruin," was the one distinguishable word. It left an echo in Hal's brain, an echo which rang hollowly amongst misgivings. "_Is_ it ruin to try and run a newspaper without taking a percentage of that kind of profits, Mac?" he asked. "Well, a newspaper can't be too squeamish about its ads." was the cautious answer. "Do all newspapers carry that kind of stuff?" "Not quite. Most of them, though. They need the money." "What's the matter with business in this town? Everything seems to be rotten." Ellis took refuge in a proverb. "Business is business," he stated succinctly. "And it's as bad everywhere as here? This is all new to me, you know. I rather expected to find every concern as decently and humanly run as Certina."