Sitting between the two newspaper workers, Marrineal overtopped them both; the supple strength of Banneker as well as the gnarly slenderness of Edmonds.  He gave an impression of loose-jointed and rather lazy power; also of quiet self-confidence.  He began to talk at once, with the easy, drifting commentary of a man who had seen everything, measured much, and liked the glittering show.  Both of the others, one his elder, the other his junior, felt the ready charm of the man.  Both were content to listen, waiting for the clue to his intrusion which he had contrived to make not only inoffensive, but seemingly a casual act of good-fellowship.  The clue was not afforded, but presently some shrewd opinion of the newcomer upon the local political situation set them both to discussion.  Quite insensibly Marrineal withdrew from the conversation, sipping his coffee and listening with an effect of effortless amenity.

“If we had a newspaper here that wasn’t tied hard and fast, politically!” cried Edmonds presently.

Marrineal fingered a specially fragrant cigar.  “But a newspaper must be tied to something, mustn’t it?” he queried.  “Otherwise it drifts.”

“Why not to its reading public?” suggested Banneker.

“That’s an idea.  But can you tie to a public?  Isn’t the public itself adrift, like seaweed?”

“Blown about by the gales of politics.”  Edmonds accepted the figure.  “Well, the newspaper ought to be the gale.”

“I gather that you gentlemen do not think highly of present journalistic conditions.”

“You overheard our discussion,” said Banneker bluntly.

Marrineal assented.  “It did not seem private.  Katie’s is a sort of free forum.  That is why I come.  I like to listen.  Besides, it touched me pretty closely at one or two points.”

The two others turned toward him, waiting.  He nodded, and took upon himself an air of well-pondered frankness.  “I expect to take a more active part in journalism from now on.”

Edmonds followed up the significant phrase. “More active?  You have newspaper interests?”

“Practically speaking, I own The Patriot.  What do you gentlemen think of it?”

“Who reads The Patriot?” inquired Banneker.  He was unprepared for the swift and surprised flash from Marrineal’s fine eyes, as if some profoundly analytical or revealing suggestion had been made.

“Forty thousand men, women, and children.  Not half enough, of course.”

“Not a tenth enough, I would say, if I owned the paper.  Nor are they the right kind of readers.”

“How would you define them, then?” asked Marrineal, still in that smooth voice.

“Small clerks.  Race-track followers.  People living in that class of tenements which call themselves flats.  The more intelligent servants.  Totally unimportant people.”

“Therefore a totally unimportant paper?”

“A paper can be important only through what it makes people believe and think.  What possible difference can it make what The Patriot’s readers think?”