"He seems to be an absent-minded old bird. When I talk to him, it's as though I were trying to speak through a fog."
"It looks to me as though his mind had overstayed its leave of absence."
"He likes the kind of men who, as he says, 'have both feet on the ground'."
"Yes, but you've got to have at least one foot in the air if you're going to get anywhere."
"See here," said the literary editor, who was more tolerant than the others. "What's the use of panning the Old Man? He's trying to put the paper over, just as hard as we are. Maybe harder. But he doesn't know. And I believe he knows he doesn't know. I think the chief trouble is, they all knuckle down to him so. They're scared of him. They think the only way they can hold their jobs is by agreeing with him. If someone could only put him wise----"
"But how _can_ you put him wise? He doesn't see anything unless it's laid out for him in a strip cartoon or a full-page ad. The kind of thing that interests him is the talk he hears in a Pullman smoker or club car."
"That's a fact. You know he always says he likes to go travelling, because he picks up ideas from people on the train. 'Of course I place you! Mr. Mowbray Monk of Seattle. And is your Rotary Club still rotating?' That kind of talk."
"I think you're right," said Sanford. "He doesn't see us because we have too much protective colouring. We are only the patient drudges. We don't talk that Pullman palaver about Big Business. We've got to learn to talk his language. What is that phrase of Bacon's--we've got to bring ourselves home to his business and bosom----"
"Let's get back to the office," said the disillusioned literary editor. "That's the way to bring home the bacon."
A few days later Sanford was at his desk, clipping and pasting press agents' flimsies for the Saturday Theatre Page. This was a task which he hated above all others, and he was meditating sourly on the scarcity of truth in human affairs. At this moment Mr. Birdlip happened to pass along the corridor outside the editorial rooms. Sanford heard him say:
"Miss Flaccus, will you get me a seat in the club car, ten o'clock train to-morrow? I've got to run over to New York to take lunch with Mr. Montaigne."
Sanford put down his shears, relit his pipe, and began to pursue a fugitive idea round the suburbs of his mind. Presently he drew out his check book from a drawer and did some calculating on a sheet of paper. "A hundred dollars," he said to himself. "I guess it's worth it."
