“There’s more than that.”

“Is there?  What?”

“We’re a pariah caste, Edmonds, we reporters.  People look down on us.”

“Oh, that be damned!  You can’t afford to be swayed by the ignorance or snobbery of outsiders.  Play the game straight, and let the rest go.”

“But we are, aren’t we?” persisted Banneker.

“What!  Pariahs?” The look which the old-timer bent upon the rising star of the business had in it a quality of brooding and affection.  “Son, you’re too young to have come properly to that frame of mind.  That comes later.  With the dregs of disillusion after the sparkle has died out.”

“But it’s true.  You admit it.”

“If an outsider said that we were pariahs I’d call him a liar.  But, what’s the use, with you?  It isn’t reporting alone.  It’s the whole business of news-getting and news-presenting; of journalism.  We’re under suspicion.  They’re afraid of us.  And at the same time they’re contemptuous of us.”

“Why?”

“Because people are mostly fools and fools are afraid or contemptuous of what they don’t understand.”

Banneker thought it over.  “No.  That won’t do,” he decided.  “Men that aren’t fools and aren’t afraid distrust us and despise the business.  Edmonds, there’s nothing wrong, essentially, in furnishing news for the public.  It’s part of the spread of truth.  It’s the handing on of the light.  It’s—­it’s as big a thing as religion, isn’t it?”

“Bigger.  Religion, seven days a week.”

“Well, then—­”

“I know, son,” said Edmonds gently.  “You’re thirsting for the clear and restoring doctrine of journalism.  And I’m going to give you hell’s own heresy.  You’ll come to it anyway, in time.”  His fierce little pipe glowed upward upon his knotted brows.  “You talk about truth, news:  news and truth as one and the same thing.  So they are.  But newspapers aren’t after news:  not primarily.  Can’t you see that?”

“No.  What are they after?”

“Sensation.”

Banneker turned the word over in his mind, evoking confirmation in the remembered headlines even of the reputable Ledger.

“Sensation,” repeated the other.  “We’ve got the speed-up motto in industry.  Our newspaper version of it is ‘spice-up.’  A conference that may change the map of Europe will be crowded off any front page any day by young Mrs. Poultney Masters making a speech in favor of giving girls night-keys, or of some empty-headed society dame being caught in a roadhouse with another lady’s hubby.  Spice:  that’s what we’re looking for.  Something to tickle their jaded palates.  And they despise us when we break our necks or our hearts to get it for ’em.”

“But if it’s what they want, the fault lies with the public, not with us,” argued Banneker.

“I used to know a white-stuff man—­a cocaine-seller—­who had the same argument down pat,” retorted Edmonds quietly.

Banneker digested that for a time before continuing.