Had he ever allowed monetary considerations seriously to concern him, he might have been troubled by an untoward and not easily explicable phenomenon.  His bank account consistently failed to increase in ratio to his earnings.  In fact, what with tempting investments, the importunities of a highly luxurious taste in life hitherto unsuspected, and an occasional gambling flyer, his balance was precarious, so to speak.  With the happy optimism of one to whom the rosy present casts an intensified glow upon the future, he confidently anticipated a greatly and steadily augmented income, since the circulation of The Patriot was now the terror of its rivals.  That any radical alteration could be made in his method of recompense did not occur to him.  So completely had he identified himself with The Patriot that he subconsciously regarded himself as essential to its prosperity if not to its actual existence.  Therein he was supported by all the expert opinion of Park Row.  Already he had accepted one modification of his contract, and his takings for new circulation were now twenty-five cents per unit per year instead of fifty cents as formerly.

But Tertius Marrineal and his business manager, a shrewd and practical gentleman named Haring, had done a vast deal of expert figuring, as a result of which the owner strolled into his editor’s office one noon with his casual air of having nothing else to do, and pleasantly inquired: 

“Busy?”

“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be worth much,” returned Banneker, in a cheerful tone.

“Well, if you can spare me fifteen minutes—­”

“Sit down.”  Banneker swiveled his chair to face the other.

“I needn’t tell you that the paper is a success; a big success,” began Marrineal.

“You needn’t.  But it’s always pleasant to hear.”

“Possibly too big a success.  What would you say to letting circulation drop for a while?”

“What!” Banneker felt a momentary queer sensation near the pit of his stomach.  If the circulation dropped, his income followed it.  But could Marrineal be serious?

“The fact is we’ve reached the point where more circulation is a luxury.  We’re printing an enormous paper, and wood-pulp prices are going up.  If we could raise our advertising rates;—­but Mr. Haring thinks that three raises a year is all the traffic will bear.  The fact is, Mr. Banneker, that the paper isn’t making money.  We’ve run ahead of ourselves.  You’re swallowing all the profits.”

Banneker’s inner voice said warningly to Banneker, “So that’s it.”  Banneker’s outer voice said nothing.

“Then there’s the matter of advertising.  Your policy is not helping us much there.”

“The advertising is increasing.”

“Not in proportion to circulation.  Nothing like.”

“If the proper ratio isn’t maintained, that is the concern of the advertising department, isn’t it?”

“Very much the concern.  Will you talk with Mr. Haring about it?”