In the old, ink-smelling office of the Chicago Chronicle.
Allen had just finished explaining to Fowler his perfect 'story script' about the Kansas Miners.
Fowler was immersed in a creative frenzy, feeling as if he was about to personally slay his enemies.
But the newly appointed editor in the office poured a bucket of cold water on their enthusiasm.
"Mr. Williams, Mr. Fowler," he said, looking worried.
"This article is indeed... very powerful, but I must remind you both. Our newspaper's daily circulation is currently less than three thousand copies. Moreover, most of our readers are like us, small businessmen on the verge of bankruptcy. No matter how well written this article is, I'm afraid it won't make much of a splash in Chicago."
This was a very realistic problem.
No matter how good the weapon, if its range isn't enough, it can't hit the enemy.
"You're right."
Allen looked at him and nodded approvingly.
"So, before firing this cannonball, we need to equip it with a new cannon that can cover the entire city."
He looked at Fowler and the new editor, slowly outlining his next plan.
A plan that left both veteran media professionals dumbfounded.
"Starting tomorrow, the Chicago Chronicle will temporarily suspend publication for three days."
"Suspend publication?" The editor was stunned. "Sir, we're already losing readers; suspending publication again..."
"This is for an unprecedented rebirth," Allen interrupted him. "Three days later, when our newspaper reappears on newsstands, it will have a brand new name, layout, and a brand new price."
"I will rename it the Chicago Daily Truth. Its slogan will be 'Speaking Only for the People'."
"The layout will be personally designed by Mr. Fowler. No advertisements are allowed on the front page. Only our article about the Kansas Miners will be published."
"And its price," Allen held up a finger, "on the first day of its re-publication, it will only sell for one cent."
"One cent?!" the editor exclaimed. "Sir, are you mad? Our current cost per newspaper is over three cents! Selling it for one cent means we'll lose two cents for every copy sold! This... this is suicide!"
Allen shook his head, disagreeing with the editor's statement.
"NONONO, this isn't suicide; it's an investment. A gamble to buy the attention of the entire city with money."
He looked at the two confused men and began to explain the business logic behind the plan.
"Have you ever thought about why your newspaper didn't sell before? Because in the eyes of the public, you were no different from other newspapers in the city. Just a bunch of clichés and nonsense. And now, what we need to do is use the unprecedented price of 'one cent' to tell everyone that we are different."
"I want you to hire all the bill posters in the city during these three days of suspension. Plaster our flyers on every street corner, every factory gate, and every tavern in Chicago."
"Just a few lines: Tired of lies? Want to read the truth? Three days later, the Chicago Daily Truth launches! Telling you the secrets the railroad magnates never want you to know! Inaugural day special, only one cent city-wide!"
"I want this 'one-cent campaign' to be the only topic of discussion for all Chicagoans during these three days. I want everyone to be immensely curious about this 'truth' that sells for only one cent."
"As for the print run."
Allen turned to the editor and stated a number that almost made him faint.
"For the first issue, print me one hundred thousand copies."
"One... one hundred thousand copies?"
The editor felt his heart was about to stop beating.
"Sir, even at one cent, we won't sell that many. And the loss... the loss will be two thousand dollars! That will immediately burn through more than half of the funds we just injected."
"Who said we have to sell them all?" Allen smiled. "My goal isn't to make money. It's for 'delivery'.
Besides selling at newsstands, I want you to organize all the newsboys you can find to free ly insert tens of thousands of the remaining copies into every citizen's doorstep and every businessman's office. I want this article to appear in the sight of everyone in Chicago who can influence public opinion within twenty-four hours."
Fowler now fully understood Allen's intentions.
His eyes, as he looked at Allen, were filled with fervent admiration.
"Mr. Williams..." he murmured, "You... you're not running a newspaper. You're waging a... people's war."
"The war has already begun, Mr. Fowler."
Allen looked at Fowler, staring into his eyes with a very serious tone.
"I'm just choosing the most advantageous way for us to fight."
Three days later, the entire Chicago was in a frenzy because of a newspaper.
The Chicago Daily Truth, this new name that appeared out of nowhere, its disruptive 'one-cent' price, and its provocative advertising slogan, successfully ignited the curiosity of all the people.
Long lines formed in front of newsstands.
Newsboys shuttled through the streets and alleys, delivering copies of the 'truth,' still smelling of fresh ink, to every corner of the city.
And when people truly read Fowler's article about the Kansas Miners, full of blood and tears, curiosity quickly turned into anger.
An unprecedented storm of public opinion was instantly ignited.
"Damn vampires! They don't even give an ordinary farmer a way to live."
"This is how those big shots in the East treat us; they treat us like their slaves!"
"Mr. Charles Reeves is our own hero of the West! We must support him!"
Flames of anger burned fiercely in every corner of the city.
Several businesses closely related to the Eastern Railroad Alliance were even surrounded and boycotted by angry citizens.
The offices of several councilmen who had publicly spoken for the Railroad Alliance were pelted with rotten vegetables and eggs.
And at the center of the storm, in the Chicago Stock Exchange.
The small shareholders holding shares of Reeves's company were also swept up in this torrent of public opinion.
But their reaction was completely different from that of the public.
"Oh my god, have you seen the newspaper? Reeves has become the public enemy of all railroad companies in the East!"
"He's trying to hit a rock with an egg! Can public support be eaten? Can it turn into profit?"
"It's over! This company is doomed! Those tycoons will never let him go. I must sell these damn shares before they act."
Public 'sympathy' was coldly interpreted as 'risk' in the capital market.
A wave of panic selling, even more ferocious than before, once again unfolded without warning.
The stock price of Reeves's company, amidst the overwhelming 'support' of the people, plummeted, falling from three dollars all the way past the two-dollar mark.
Stockbroker Blackwood came to Allen to report on the situation.
"The weapon of public opinion is sharper than I imagined. The entire market is frantically selling Reeves's stock; they're like fleeing a sinking ship."
"And we are like the most patient fishermen, receiving everything they throw into the sea."
"Please instruct, what should be the next step?"
Allen held a telegram from New York in his hand, stating that the company's profits had reached a new high.
He poured Blackwood a cup of black tea and replied with one sentence.
"Keep buying."