The posters were duly in
the ground-floor windows, and gold signs, one above another to the roof,
produced an air of lucrative success.
Denry happened to be in the _Daily_ offices that afternoon. He had
had nothing to do with the details of organisation, for details of
organisation were not his speciality. His speciality was large, leading
ideas. He knew almost nothing of the agreements with correspondents and
Press Association and Central News, and the racing services and the
fiction syndicates, nor of the difficulties with the Compositors' Union,
nor of the struggle to lower the price of paper by the twentieth of a
penny per pound, nor of the awful discounts allowed to certain
advertisers, nor of the friction with the railway company, nor of the
sickening adulation that had been lavished on quite unimportant
newsagents, nor--worst of all--of the dearth of newsboys. These matters
did not attract him. He could not stoop to them. But when Mr Myson, calm
and proud, escorted him down to the machine-room, and the Marinoni threw
a folded pink _Daily_ almost into his hands, and it looked exactly
like a real newspaper, and he saw one of his own descriptive articles in
it, and he reflected that he was an owner of it--then Denry was
attracted and delighted, and his heart beat.
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