While Paul was dictating, in sharp, short sentences, the answers to the
batch of mail marked "Mining," two cards were brought in to him.
"JOHN POOLEY,
President State Federation of Labor."
"R. E. L. BIVENS,
Editor, _The Adamsville Voice of Labor_."
His eyes crinkled into a smile, although the mouth remained a hard fixed
line. Pelham must see this pair of blood-suckers at work; that would
open the boy's eyes to the dry rot in the practical working out of his
labor theorizing.
No, he would see them alone. Perhaps he could get at the son indirectly.
"Send Mr. Kane in."
The company's advertising manager opened the private door as the two
labor leaders were adjusting themselves complacently into ample chairs.
"What can I do for you, Pooley?"
"We called to see about the convention special of the _Voice_, sir.
Wouldn't you like a half-page write-up for the company, or yourself? The
half is only seventy-five dollars.... It'll go where it'll do lots of
good, sir."
Paul directed his gaze to the wheezing, balloon-like figure of the
editor. "Has Kane given you enough advertising, Bivens?"
The puffed, greedy face smiled ingratiatingly. "Mr. Kane's been very
good to us, sir. At least a quarter of a page weekly."
"How has the _Voice of Labor_ made out?"
"It's made out--that's about all, Mr. Judson. Print paper's gone so
high, that only the adver_tise_ments has made it go. We expect this
special will net a neat sum."
He jingled the Woodmen's emblem at the end of a thick gold chain,
thoroughly satisfied with the world. There was an Odd Fellows' button on
his coat--fraternal orders strengthened his appeals for the paper.
"Pooley, how do you stand on this mining law down at Jackson?"
The lanky president of the State Federation twisted his lame leg more
comfortably under him, and leaned forward, gesticulating diplomatically.
"It's both good and bad, Mr. Judson. Some of the boys is very strong for
it. But I seen an editorial against it in the _Times-Dispatch_ last
week. I figured you might not be for it."