soft jobs for his family at public expense. Every night there are street corner meetings. Nobody says a word about the referendum on the high school field. It's just a side issue. It's up to us to see that it stops being a side issue."
Bristow, his lips still pursed, whistled a preoccupied, aimless, almost silent tune.
"We've been to the editor of the Morning Herald." Praska went on, "and we've had a talk with the editor of the Evening Star. We asked them to get behind the athletic field and boost it. But both papers are attacking Commissioner Sloan. They won't go off on any side issues, either. What's the result? They've each given us one little item buried on an inside page—a couple of inches in each paper. That won't get us any place. There's only one road left. We've got to make our fight in the Breeze."
"We won't reach much of the public," said Bristow.
"We'll reach the parents of our eight hundred students. Less than eight hundred voters bothered to say either yes or no three years ago."
Bristow, still whistling that almost soundless tune, walked to the middle table of the three, and stood there toying with the clipping shears.
"If the Breeze goes into this," he said abruptly, "it's going to be mighty hard work."
