"
"You speak bitterly," said Montague.
"I am bitter," said Bates. "But it doesn't often break out. I hold
my tongue, and stew in my own juice. We newspaper men see the game,
you know. We are behind the scenes, and we see the sawdust put into
the dolls. We have to work in this rottenness all the time, and some
of us don't like it, I can tell you. But what can we do?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I spend my time getting facts together,
and nine times out of ten my newspaper won't print them."
"I should think you'd quit," said the other, in a low voice.
"What better can I do?" asked the reporter. "I have the facts; and
once in a while there comes an explosion, and I get my chance. So I
stick at the job. I can't but believe that if you keep putting these
things before the people, sometime, sooner or later, they will do
something. Sometime there will come a man who has a conscience and a
voice, and who won't sell out. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?"
"Yes," said Montague, "I think so."
CHAPTER XVII
The summer wore on.
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