Mack ignored Emil’s muttered curse and rapped on the office door. Horace beckoned them inside, and Mack eased into one of the two chairs facing the desk. He spied theRegisteratop the desk and suppressed a sigh. His uncle had become obsessed with other newspapers recently, but he wouldn’t explain why. He combed through them every morning and verbally skewered anyone who interrupted him. Then, at some inexplicable point, he would become giddy and return to work with refreshed vigor. The fickle moods were exhausting.
Luckily, there were only six months until Horace retired and signed the newspaper over to Mack. The plan had been set into motion years ago by Horace and Mack’s mother, and while Mack normally abhorred their attempts to puppeteer his life, this time he was fully on board. He had been captivated by the world of journalism since the first day he stood on the street corner as a newsboy, and he couldn’t imagine doing anything else with his life.
But more importantly, it would allow him to fulfill the promise he’d made to his dying father over a decade ago.
Mack’s stomach knotted at the memory of his father moments before he passed, weeping and insisting yellow journalism had led him to his death. Mack had promised to do his part to usher in a new era of journalism and provide the public with ethical reporting.
He didn’t regret his promise. Hewantedto be part of the new guard that was already taking steps across the nation. Months of sandpaper eyes from lack of sleep and backaches from stooping over his desk were a small price to pay forfinallycommanding his own destiny.
And all he had to do to make that happen was play by his uncle’s increasingly stifling rules for six more measly months.
The irony kept him awake at night.
Horace beckoned them forward with a curt wave. “I’ve had to deal with all sorts today, so let’s get this over with.”
Mack laid his papers on the desk. “The quarterly report is worrisome. We’re performing well in national news, but local news is at an all-time low. If we continue in this direction, we’ll have to drastically cut expenses in the fourth quarter.”
“For God’s sake.” Horace rubbed his temples. “And what do you propose to get us out of this mess?”
“Human-interest stories that address local interest. That’s what gets more readers, particularly women.”
“Women readers?”
“Women do read, uncle.”
“Isn’t that pandering to the public?” Emil interjected.
“Yes.” Mack strove for patience. “But it brings in money. Besides, it worked for Hearst and Pulitzer, why not us?”
Horace hummed noncommittally. “Mr. Anderson, what’s your take?”
Mack’s lips compressed into a tight line, but he gave Emil the floor. Would his old friend finally step up?
“We’re unnecessarily fighting newspapers for the same readership. This quarter alone, our stories have barely differed from those in theRegister.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“Rather than write the same thing, we should take the opposite stance. Give them a run for their money.”
“The opposite stance on the economy, labor, and immigration?” Mack couldn’t hide his surprise. “And risk alienating our established readership?”
“Obviously, that’s not what I meant.” Emil’s brow rose contemptuously. “There are several issues where public opinion is divided—thatis where our opportunity lies.”
“You’re on to something, Mr. Anderson.” Horace leaned forward in his seat. “Look at what nonsense theRegisterpublished today. It almost sounds like they support the damned movement! If you ask me, the day a woman votes will be the demise of the family unit.”
“I know many who would agree with you, Mr. McEntire,” Emil said.
Mack fought the urge to snap his pencil in half.
“Then it’s decided—we begin with anti-suffrage.”
Mack made a last-ditch effort to stem the tide that very well might drown them. “Uncle, we’ve made positive strides in the last few years by covering both sides of an issue. My analysis shows it would be poor reporting to—”
Horace’s hand slammed on the desk. “Enough about your analysis—I pay you to be an editor, for God’s sake. My intuition says this is the right move, and it’s my name on the line, not yours.”
Emil shifted in his chair. “I wonder if there’s a way for us to learn of the suffragists’ agenda ahead of time.”
Mack resisted rolling his eyes. What was the point of trying? When the paper was his, he’d follow through on his promise and change its trajectory for the better—hell, he’d lead the reform himself. He just hoped his uncle hadn’t run it into the ground before then. An insistent rapping at the door saved him from having to respond.
