“I can tell you in a way that you will understand,” replied Wycliff sharply: “When Rudolph Hartland, a small contractor, had trouble with his workmen, and a dozen of them went on a strike, you devoted columns of valuable space to the occurrence; but when hundreds of employees in the Liberty Mill of the Baldwin Paper Company, struck against a cut in wages, your paper never mentioned it. Here was an important event, in which the public had a vital interest, but you would not allow any reference to it in the paper. You have never allowed the facts to be presented in your publication regarding the partial disfranchisement of workingmen in Papyrus, by which all mill-hands are prevented from having any voice in town-government, except to vote for town-officers, being shut out from voting for appropriations. Only a short time ago you refused to publish Reverend Ralph Cutter’s farewell sermon, the most notable sermon, perhaps, ever preached in Papyrus. Why have you refused publicity to these things, which the people want to know, and which the people are entitled to know? Simply because you are afraid of offending the Baldwins. You ought to wear a brass collar, with your owner’s name on it.” John Wycliff’s voice and features were not expressive. He could never have been an actor. But he was getting waked up, and a little light was creeping into his one lonesome, dull gray eye. Such expression as there was in his features was of loathing and contempt. He looked as if he would have been glad to take up his visitor with a pair of tongs, deposit him gently in some out-of-the-way place, and cover him up so that he would not offend the senses of decent people. “I didn’t come here to listen to abuse of this kind,” exclaimed Terry angrily. “Never mind what you came here for,” retorted Wycliff. “If you stay around me you will hear a grain of truth occasionally. There may be something to be said for a man like Deacon Surface, who serves the devil for a fat salary, but you serve him for nothing. The Baldwins despise you, as such men always despise their slaves, and the public despises you, too. And what do you get out of it? You complain that you are selling only one thousand papers in Papyrus. Why not give the facts that the people are entitled to know, and sell fifteen hundred?” Terry was angry, but the money was what he was after, and possibly Wycliff was right, after all, in what he said. “Let’s talk business,” he said. “Come out to Lawyer Sturgis’ office to-morrow, and we’ll sign an agreement. If you can bring our circulation in Papyrus up to fifteen hundred copies, you shall have fifteen hundred dollars a year, and one year’s salary guaranteed. You shall handle the Papyrus news and comment upon it as you see fit, so long as you do not render the publisher of the paper liable to an action at law. If we differ on this point, Lawyer Sturgis’ decision shall be final.” “It’s a bargain,” said Wycliff, and his caller departed.