A knock at the door was the only answer--a servant who came to tell her that Mrs. Goodchild wished her to know they were waiting for her downstairs in the Dutch room.
"Very well," she said to the servant. To herself she said, firmly, "Even if he loves me and is everything he should be I can never marry a man who has made me feel like a theatrical poster!"
Her determination was adamantine. To break it H. R. must be more than clever.
H. R. at that very moment was in his office. He had prepared a few model epistles for his Public Sentiment Corps to write to the newspapers, asking whether the composition of the ideal hunger-appeaser had been printed and when the tickets for the Mammoth Hunger Feast would be offered for sale. This would keep alive interest in his plans and in the personnel of his public commissions. People had grown to believe that all sorts of commissions were necessary not only to free but even to intelligent government.
He had his list of names ready for the reporters when they called.
"The announcement as to how we shall sell the tickets--each at twenty-five cents--to pay for a wonderful meal for a hungry person and a coupon attached, with ten thousand dollars in cash if you have brains--will be made to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" said H. R., feeling strong enough now to be nasty to the press. Either he was or he was not yet News. He would decide that matter for all time.
"Do you think we are your hired press agents to--" angrily began the fat one.
"I don't give a damn if I never see you again. I don't care what you print or what you don't print, nor when. We do our advertising through the medium of sandwiches. Get to hell out of here and remember the libel laws; also that I pay my lawyers by the year. They are not very busy just now." To the others he said, kindly, "That's all to-day, boys. I'm busy as blazes."
Cursing the absurd libel laws which prevent all newspapers from printing the truth, the fat reporter took his list of names and his leave at one and the same time. You can't treat even frauds humorously nowadays.
He summoned Andrew Barrett and said to him: "Get this sandwich out to-morrow. It is one of our own. S. A. S. A. account; all-day job."
"Seven thirty-cent tickets to Weinpusslacher's apiece," interrupted H. R., impatiently. "Get them from Weinie. He owes us three thousand."