He suggested, "Perhaps they'll think it's an old thing if they do see it." "Well, get somebody else, then; or else get Maxwell to write under an assumed name.

Or--I forgot! He'll be anonymous under our system, anyway.
Now there ain't a more popular racket for us to work in that first number than a good, swinging attack on Bevans.

People read his books and quarrel over 'em, and the critics are all against him, and a regular flaying, with salt and vinegar rubbed in afterward, will tell more with people who like good old-fashioned fiction than anything else.

I like Bevans's things, but, dad burn it! when it comes to that first number, I'd offer up anybody." "What an immoral little wretch you are, Fulkerson!" said March, with a laugh.
Fulkerson appeared not to be very strenuous about the attack on the novelist.

"Say!" he called out, gayly, "what should you think of a paper defending the late lamented system of slavery' ?" "What do you mean, Fulkerson ?" asked March, with a puzzled smile.
Fulkerson braced his knees against his desk, and pushed himself back, but kept his balance to the eye by canting his hat sharply forward.
"There's an old cock over there at the widow's that's written a book to prove that slavery was and is the only solution of the labor problem.
He's a Southerner." "I should imagine," March assented.
"He's got it on the brain that if the South could have been let alone by the commercial spirit and the pseudophilanthropy of the North, it would have worked out slavery into a perfectly ideal condition for the laborer, in which he would have been insured against want, and protected in all his personal rights by the state.