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COMMON CAUSE

A Novel of the War in America

By Samuel Hopkins Adams

With Illustrations by Arthur William Brown

Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company

1919

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COMMON CAUSE




PART I




CHAPTER I

DEUTSCHLAND, Deutschland über alles!” Three thousand voices blended and
swelled in the powerful harmony. The walls of the Fenchester Auditorium
trembled to it. The banners, with their German mottoes of welcome,
swayed to the rhythm.

“Über alles in der Welt!”

The thundering descent of the line with its superb resonances was
as martial as a cavalry charge. Three thousand flushed, perspiring,
commonplace faces above respectable black coats in the one sex and
mildly ornate blouses in the other, were caught by the fire and the
ferment of it and grew suddenly rapt and ecstatic. Wave after wave of
massed harmonies followed in the onset. One could feel, rather than
hear, in the impassioned voices a spirit instantly more fanatic, more
exotic, a strange and exultant note, as of challenge. It was inspiring.
It was startling. It was formidable. It was anything for which young Mr.
Jeremy Robson, down in the reporters’ seats, might find an adjective,
except, perhaps, American.

Yet this was the American city of Fenchester, capital of the sovereign
State of Centralia, in the year of grace and peace, nineteen hundred and
twelve, half a decade before the United States of America descended into
the Valley of the Shadow of Death to face the German guns, thundering
out that same chorus of “Germany over all in the world!”

All the Federated German Societies of the State of Centralia in annual
convention assembled might sing their federated German heads off for all
that Jeremy Robson cared. He mildly approved the music, not so much
for the sense as for the sound, under cover of which he was enabled to
question his neighbor, Galpin, of The Guardian, concerning the visiting
notabilities upon the stage. For young Mr. Robson was still a bit new to
his work on The Record, and rather flattered that an assignment of
this importance should have fallen to him. The local and political
celebrities he already knew--the Governor; the Mayor; Robert Wanser,
President of the Fenchester Trust Company; State Senator Martin Embree;
Carey Crobin, the “Boss of the Ward”; Emil Bausch, President of the
local Deutscher Club; and a dozen of the other leading citizens, all
ornamented with conspicuous badges. Galpin obligingly indicated the
principal strangers. Gordon Fliess, of Bellair, head of the Fliess
Brewing Company; the Reverend Theo Gunst, the militant ecclesiast of a
near-by German Theological Seminary; Ernst Bauer, of the Marlittstown
Herold und Zeitung; Pastor Klink, the recognized head of the German
religious press of the region; Martin Dolge, accredited with being
the dictator of the State’s educational system; and the Herr Professor
Koerner, of the University of Felsingen, special envoy from Germany to
the United States for the propagation of that wide-spread and carefully
fostered Teutonic plant, Deutschtum, the spirit of German Kultur in
foreign lands.

At the close of the musical exaltation of Germany above all the world,
including, of course, the hospitably adoptive nation under whose
protection the singers sat, the exercises proceeded with a verbal
glorification of the Fatherland. The Governor, in complimentary and
carefully memorized German, lauded the Teutons as the prop of the State.
The Mayor, in strongly Teutonized English, proclaimed them the hope of
the city. Several other speakers, whose accents identified them as more
American than their sentiments, acclaimed the upholders of Deutschtum as
salt of the earth and pillars of Society. Then a chorus of public school
children, in the colors of imperial Germany rose to sing “Die Wacht am
Rhein,” and everybody rose with them, or nearly everybody. They sang it
directly in the face of his Imperial Majesty, Kaiser Wilhelm, gazing,
bewreathed, down at them from over the stage, with stern and martial
approval.

“They do it mighty well,” commented young Jeremy Robson.

“Ay-ah. Why would n’t they!” returned Galpin.

“You mean they’ve been specially drilled for it?”

“Specially nothing! That’s part of their regular school exercises.”

“In the German schools?”

“In the _public_ schools. Our schools. Paid for out of our taxes. ‘Come
to order.’ Tap-tap-tap with Teacher’s ruler. ‘Der bupils will now rice
und zing “Die Wacht am Rhein.”’ But try em with ‘America,’ and they
would n’t know the first verse.”

“You seem to feel strongly about it.”

“Not in working hours. Have n’t got any feelings. I’m a reporter.”

From this point the programme was exclusively in German. The next
speaker, Pastor Klink, rose and glorified God, a typically if not
exclusively German God. Emil Bausch, following, extolled the Kaiser
rather more piously than his predecessor had glorified the Kaiser’s
Creator. Martin Dolge apostrophized the spirit of Deutschtum, which, if
one might believe him, was invented by the Creator and improved by the
Kaiser. Just here occurred an unfortunate break in the programme. The
next speaker on the list had been called out, and an interim must be
filled while he was retrieved. The chairman motioned to the band leader
for music. Whether in a spirit of perversity or by sheer, unhappy
chance, the director led his men in the strains of “The Star-Spangled
Banner.”

In justice to our citizens of German descent and allegiance, it must
be admitted that they are of equable spirit. Nobody openly resented the
playing of the national anthem. A glance of disapproval passed between
the professorial envoy from Germany and Pastor Klink, and some of the
others on the stage frowned momentarily. But their habitual tolerant
good nature at once reasserted itself. Of course, no one rose; that
gesture was reserved for the German national music. No one, that is who
counted, in that assemblage. But from the reporters’ seats Jeremy Robson
and Galpin dimly made out a figure, long-coated, straw-hatted and slim,
in the first row of the balcony’s farthest corner, standing stiffly
erect.

Around it buzzed a small disturbance. There were sounds of laughter,
which spread and mingled with a few calls of disapprobation. A woman
beside the erect figure seemed to be making an effort at dissuasion.
It was unavailing. On the stage there were curious looks and queries.
Presently the whole house was gazing at the slender, lone figure.

“Who’s the kid?” asked Jeremy Robson, interested.

“Don’t know him,” answered Galpin, staring.

“I like his nerve, anyway.”

“It’s better than his style,” commented the other, grinning. “If he’s
going to stand to attention, why does n’t he take off his hat?”

“Here’s another one,” said The Guardian reporter, turning toward the
lower tier box on their right.

An iron-gray, square-jawed man with shrewd and pleasant eyes, who, in
his obviously expensive but easy-fitting suit of homespun, gave the
impression of physical power, was shouldering his way to the rail. A
small American flag occupied a humble position in a group of insignia
ornamenting the next box. The man plucked it out and made as if he would
raise it above his head, then changed his mind. Holding it stiffly in
front of him he turned to face the distant figure, and so stood, grim,
awkward, solid, while the chosen voice of the Nation’s patriotism sang
to unheeding ears below.

“Movie stuff,” observed Jeremy Robson with that cynicism which every
young reporter considers proper to his profession.

“That’s Magnus Laurens,” said his mentor. “Nothing theatrical about
Magnus. He’s a reg’lar feller.”

The novice was impressed. For Laurens was a name of prestige throughout
Centralia. Its owner controlled the water-power of the State and was a
growing political figure.

“What’s he doing it for?” he inquired.

“Because he’s an American, I suppose. Queer reason, ain’t it!”

“There’s another, then,” returned Robson, as there arose, from a front
row seat on the stage, the strong and graceful figure of Martin Embree,
State Senator from the Northern Tier where the Germans make up three
fourths of the population.

“Trust Smiling Mart to do the tactful thing,” observed Galpin. “He’s the
guy that invented popularity, and he’s held the patent ever since.”

The Senator was wearing his famous smile which was both a natural
ornament and a political asset. He directed it upon Magnus Laurens who
did not see it, turned it toward the slim patriot in the gallery who may
or may not have observed it, and then carried it close to the ear of the
chairman. Snatches of his eager and low-toned persuasion floated down to
the listening Robson.

“... all up. Can’t... harm. National... after all. If don’t want...
leave... me.”

The chairman shook his head glumly, broke loose from the smile, spoke
a word to the erring orchestra leader. The music stopped. The figure in
the balcony sank into the dimness of its background. Magnus Laurens sat
down. Senator Embree, smiling and gracious still, returned to his chair.

“There’s my story,” said young Jeremy Robson, ever on the lookout for
the picturesque. “If I can find that kid,” he added.

“Try Magnus Laurens,” suggested his elder. “Maybe he knows him.”

Throughout the address of the Herr Professor Koerner, young Mr. Robson
sat absently making notes. The notes were wholly irrelevant to the
learned envoy’s speech. Yet it was an interesting, even a significant
speech, had there been any in those easy days, to appreciate its
significance. The learned representative of German propaganda impressed
upon his hearers the holy purpose of Deutschtum. German ties must be
maintained; German habits and customs of life and above all the
German speech must be piously fostered at whatever distance from the
Fatherland, to the end that, in the inevitable day when Germany’s
oppressors, jealous of her power and greatness, should force her to draw
the sword in self-defense, every scion of German blood might rally to
her, against the world, if need be. Amidst the “Hochs!” and “Sehr guts!”
 which punctuated the oratory, the negligent reporter for The Record
sat sketching the outlines of his word-picture of the stripling in the
gallery and the magnate in the box, standing to honor their country’s
anthem, amidst the amused and patronizing wonderment of the Federated
German Societies of Centralia. As the session drew to a close, he left.

Magnus Laurens had already gone. By good fortune, young Jeremy Robson
caught a glimpse of his square and powerful figure, emerging from the
crowd and going down a side street. A girl in a riding-habit was with
him. In the bearing of her slender body, in the poise of the little head
with its tight-packed strands of tawny hair, Jeremy Robson caught a
hint of a subtle and innate quality, something gallant and proud and
challenging. He overtook them.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Laurens. My name is Robson. I’m a reporter for
The Record. Could I have a word with you?”

The water-power magnate turned upon him a face of mingled annoyance and
amusement.

“This is what I get for making a spectacle of myself, I take it,” he
grumbled. “What do you want to know? Why I did it?”

“No. That’s plain enough. Who was the boy in the balcony?”

“Boy?” repeated Mr. Laurens in surprise.

“Yes. The kid that stood up when they began ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’
Do you know him?”

“Let me refer that question to Miss Marcia Ames. She was right at the
spot, in the balcony. Miss Ames, Mr. Robson.”

Jeremy bowed and found himself looking into two large, young, and
extremely self-possessed grayish eyes, frank and happy eyes on the
surface, but with inscrutable lights and depths beneath. For the rest,
his hasty impression recorded an alert, intelligent, and delicately
slanted face, and an almost disconcertingly direct regard. The skin was
of that translucent brown-over-pink which the sun god bestows only upon
his tried and true acolytes.

“Do you know the boy, Miss Ames?”

“What boy?” Her voice was cool and liquid and endearing, and just a bit
lazily indifferent, with a strange hint--never anything more--of accent.

“The boy who stood in the first row of the balcony.”

“That was not a boy.”

“No?”

“That was I.”

“You! You’re much too tall.”

“If you thought me a boy I should seem much shorter,” she returned
composedly.

“Do you mind telling me how you came to stand up as you did?”

“I always do when they play my national anthem. Do not you?”

The “do not you” gave the young man the clue to her speech, to the
slightly exotic quality of it. It was less the accent than the clear
precision of her use of words, without the slur or contraction of common
usage. The charm of her soft and rather deep voice saved it from any
taint of the pedantic.

“No,” said he.

“Ah? But perhaps you are not an American.”

“What else should I be?”

She shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“Nor do I,” put in Magnus Laurens, “I’m ashamed to say.”

“At all events, you did it this time. It was very nice in you. Usually I
feel quite lonely. And once they were going to arrest me for it.”

“Where was that?” asked Jeremy Robson stealthily reaching for his folded
square of scratch paper.

“In Germany. When I was at school there. Are you going to put all this
in the paper?”

“Would you mind?”

“I suppose I ought to mind. It is very forward and unmaidenly, is it
not, to permit one’s self to be dragged into print?”

“It is,” said Magnus Laurens, his shrewd eyes twinkling, “and about one
hundred and one maidens out of every hundred just love it, according to
my observations.”

“I do not think that I should object,” said Miss Ames calmly. “In fact I
should be curious to see what you would say about me.”

That was Jeremy Robson’s first intimation of her unique frankness of
attitude toward herself as toward all other persons and things.

“We are on our way to the hotel where Mrs. Laurens is waiting for us,”
 explained the water-power dictator. “Why not walk along with us while
you conclude the interview?”

“I have n’t much more to ask Miss Ames,” said the reporter, complying,
“except what started her on her patriotic habit.”

“My father was an army officer,” she explained. “While he was alive
we always stood up together. Now I could no more sit through ‘The
Star-Spangled Banner’ than you would wear your hat in church. But I
really do not see anything to write about in _that_. There was much,
surely, more interesting at the meeting.”

“What, for instance?”

“The whole affair,” she said vaguely. “It seemed to me strange. What are
so many German subjects doing over here?”

“Those aren’t German subjects, my dear,” said Mr. Laurens. “They’re
American citizens, mostly.”

“Surely not!” exclaimed the girl. “The German flags, and the pictures
of the Emperor, and all the talk about the German spirit, and--and
‘Deutschland über alles.’ From _Americans?_”

“Certainly,” said the reporter. “And good ones.”

“I should think they would better be called good Germans. One cannot
imagine that sort of thing occurring in a German city. I mean if the
case were reversed, and Americans wanted to hold such a meeting.”

“No? What would happen?”

“Verboten. Lèse-majesté. Anti-imperialismus. Something dreadful of that
sort.”

“They aren’t as broad-minded in such things as we are,” observed Mr.
Laurens, in a tone which, caused young Jeremy Robson to glance at him
curiously and then become thoughtful.

“Did you notice that fat and glossy person on the stage, the one who
had just made that speech--what was his name? Bausch, I think--did you
notice his patronizing grin when you got up, Mr. Laurens? As if he felt
a calm superiority to your second-rate patriotism.”

“What a malicious young person!” said Laurens. “There’s really no harm
in Bausch that can’t be blown off like froth from beer.”

“I suppose there _is_ a story in all that,” ruminated young Jeremy
Robson: “if I had the sense to see it. Maybe it would take a historian’s
mind instead of a reporter’s to see it right. But I think I can get some
of it into my ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ story.”

“Good luck to you and it, then,” said Magnus Laurens cordially. “I’d
like to see some one in this town at this time point out that, after
all, America is America.”

“Would you?” said the girl. “Walk around to the next block and I will
show you what I saw this morning as I passed.”

They followed her around the corner and stopped before a tiny shop with
a giant’s boot swinging in front of it. The legend over the door read:

Boot & Shoe Infirmary Eli Wade, Surgeon

Across the window was stretched a brand-new American flag, and beneath
it a second legend, roughly inked on packing-paper and secured to the
glass with cobbler’s wax:

The Flag of Our Country. It stands alone.

Two beribboned, bespangled, bebadged German Federates passed near them,
and paused.

“That is the man who refused to decorate with _our_ colors,” said one,
in German.

“Pfui!” said the second contemptuously, “’s machts nichts. Matters
noding!”

Jeremy Robson took off his hat and made his adieus. “You’ve given me
something to think about,” he said, apportioning his acknowledgment
impartially, though his eyes were on the strange and alluring face of
Marcia Ames. “Good-bye, and thank you.”

“If you’re grateful for being made to think,” returned Magnus Laurens,
good-humoredly, “there’s hope for you as a reporter yet. That’s a
good-looking boy,” he added to his companion, as the young man turned
away.

“Good-looking?” she repeated, with a rising inflection that controverted
the opinion.

“Oh, not a young Adonis. But there’s something under that thatch of hair
of his or I’m no guesser. Grit, and purpose, and, I think, honesty. I
hope he does n’t make hash of us in his paper.”

Allowing himself an hour and a half, the reporter turned out in
that time what he firmly believed to be “a pippin of a story.” After
delivering the final page to an approving copy-reader he washed up, got
his coat and hat and started for the door. In the hallway he came upon
Senator Martin Embree, just closing a conversation with Farley, the
editor-in-chief.

“No politics in this, you know,” the Senator was saying, in his sunny
voice.

“I understand,” said Farley. “If there were--”

“We’d probably be on opposite sides as usual. This is simply a case of
not stirring up useless ill-feeling.”

“Quite right. And we’re much obliged to you. As long as The Guardian
won’t touch it, you can rely on us.”

“I was sure I could.” The Senator turned and came face to face with the
reporter. “Hello, Mr. Robson,” he said with his enveloping smile, and
Jeremy went on feeling that the world was a more friendly place, for
having encountered that expression of human good-will.

He descended into Fenchester’s main street. For the day, it might
have been a foreign city. It was all aflutter with streamers inscribed
“Wilkommen” followed by sundry German tags. German speech crossed
German speech in the humming air. German faces, moist, heavy-hued,
good-humored, were lifted to the insignia of the various Bunds, Vereins,
Gesellschafts, and Kranzes, all pledged to the fostering and maintenance
of a tenacious and irreconcilable foreign culture in the carelessly
hospitable land which they had adopted as their own. Over streets,
residences, stores, public buildings waved the banners of imperial
Germany.

Far above it all, from the dome of the capitol, floated the Stars
and Stripes. The flag represented a formality. It meant nothing in
particular to anybody, except that the Legislature was then in session.
Weaving in the languid air, it seemed remote, lonely, occluded from the
jovial fellowship of the swarming Teuton colors. For the time, at least,
it had been put aside from men’s minds. It was an alien in the land
whose sons had died for it, and would again die for it in a day drawing
inevitably nearer.




CHAPTER II

THE pippin of a story never ripened into print. Young Mr. Robson’s
formal report of the meeting, a staid bit of journalism, appeared in
full. But not a word of that brilliant pen-picture which he had so
affectionately worked out. With a flaccid hope that there might have
been a mistake somewhere, its author perused the columns of The Record
a second time. Nothing! Perhaps, whispered hope, they had held it over.
Being of the “sketch” order, it was good at any time. Daring greatly, he
invaded the editorial sanctum where the proof-hooks hang. On the second
he found his work of art. Upon the margin was rubber-stamped a single
word: “_Killed_.”

Young Jeremy Robson felt as if that lethal monosyllable had been
simultaneously imprinted upon his journalistic ambitions. Like salt to
the smart of his professional hurt came another thought. What would Miss
Marcia Ames think of him when she opened the paper and found nothing of
the promised article there? Would there be disappointment in the
depths of those disturbing eyes? Or--more probable and intolerable
supposition--laughter at the expense of the young cockerel of a reporter
who had crowed so confidently about what he was going to do? Happily for
the reporter’s immediate future, Mr. Farley had departed. For, were that
mild, editorial gentleman still available for the purpose, young Jeremy
Robson had straightway bearded him in his lair, demanded an explanation,
denounced him as a soggy-souled Philistine, thrown his job in his teeth,
and if he had exhibited symptoms of being “snooty” (the word is of
young Mr. Robson’s off-duty hours, and he must be responsible therefor),
bunged him one in the eye.

At which critical point young Mr. Robson came to and laughed at himself,
albeit somewhat ruefully. It was his saving grace that already he had
learned to laugh at himself. Many an equally high-spirited youngster has
gone to the devil, because he let the devil get in his laugh first.

“Souvenir of a lost masterpiece,” observed Jeremy, folding the galley
for accommodation to his pocket. He decided to take his medicine; to say
no word of the matter to any one, though he would mightily have liked to
know why the story was killed.

His resolution of silence was abandoned as the result of a meeting with
Andrew Galpin on the following morning. The Guardian man accosted him:

“Did n’t see your ‘Star-Spangled’ story, Bo.”

“No.”

“What became of it?”

“Killed. What became of yours?”

“Did n’t? write any.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a reporter; that’s why. Why queer your paper by writing American
stuff on a German day!”

“Think that’s why my stuff was killed?” asked Robson, impressed.

“Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “What did _you_ think?”

“I thought perhaps it was n’t good enough.”

“Bunk!” said the downright Galpin. “You did n’t think it at all.”

“Well, I did n’t,” admitted his junior, reddening. “I read it over in
proof. I think it’s dam’ good.”

“That’s the talk! Got a proof with you?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see.” Galpin leaned against a convenient railing, and proceeded
to absorb, rather than read, the two-thirds column, with the practiced
swiftness of his craft. “Ayah. You’re right,” he corroborated. “It _is_
dam’ good.”

“But not good enough for The Record.”

“Too good. It’s got too much guts.”

Jeremy Robson repeated the rugged Saxon word in a tone of
uncomprehending inquiry.

“Too American,” expounded the other. “Too much
‘This-is-our-country-and-don’t-you-forget-it’ in it.”

“Show me one line where--”

“It’s between the lines. You could n’t keep it out with barbed wire.
You ’re no reporter,” said Andrew Galpin severely. “What d’ you think
you’re writing for The Record? Poetry?”

“Look here!” said the bewildered Robson. “You just said it was good and
now--”

“And now I’m telling you it’s rotten. Punk! _As_ newspaper work, _for_
The Record. Or any other paper hereabouts on this great and glorious
German day. Why, it’d spoil the breakfast beer of every good and
superior citizen of German birth and extraction that read it.”

“Then they are n’t any sort of Americans if they can’t stand that!”

“‘Bah’ said Mary’s little lamb to Mary,” observed Mr. Galpin impolitely.
“Who said they were Americans? Did you hear much American at that
meeting? Did you catch any loud and frenzied cheering for the red,
white, and blue, or get your eyesight overcrowded with photographs of
the American eagle? Did you mistake the picture of the gent with the
wild-boar whiskerines for a new photo of His Excellency, the President
of the United States? Did you--”

“Oh, cut it!” said the exasperated Robson.

“Ay-ah” grunted Galpin, and studied the younger man. “Sore?” he inquired
carelessly.

“A little, I guess.”

“Like to kick a hole in The Record shop, and walk haughtily out through
it?”

“That’s the way I felt yesterday.”

“Want a job on The Guardian?”

“Could you get me on?”

“I can _take_ you on. Beginning Monday, I’m city editor. I could use
one guy that can write.” He glanced again at the killed proof, before
folding it to return to its owner. A thought struck the reporter. “Will
you print this?”

“Lord; no!”

“The Guardian would n’t be any more independent or any less timid about
this than The Record?”

“Not a bit.”

“Then why do you advise me to change?”

“I don’t.”

“But you offered--”

“Stop right there while you’re still on the track. I offered. I did n’t
advise. If you’re in this business to write what you want, and to
hell with the public, I’ve got just one piece of advice for you. Turn
millionaire and get a paper of your own.”

Jeremy flushed. “I may do it yet. Not the millionaire part, but the
other.”

“Give me a job, then,” said the other good-humoredly, “as you won’t take
one from me. If you should want it, it’s twenty a week to start. Not bad
for a town of 70,000, Bo.”

“The Record’s promised me better. I guess I’ll stay.”

“Ay-ah.” Galpin accepted the decision indifferently. “Well, I guess
you’ll get somewhere sometime if you don’t go bucking your head against
stone walls. But don’t waste your poetic style on patriotic kids who
stand nobly up in galleries for the honor of the flag.”

“That kid was a girl.”

“So I noticed in your story. Think I know her.”

“Do you?” cried the other eagerly.

“Only as far as business requires. She’s going to make newspaper copy
one of these days.”

“How’s that?”

“Only girl intercollegiate athlete in America,” replied Galpin in the
manner of a headline. “Trying for the golf-team, and from what I hear,
liable to make it.”

“At Old Central?” asked Robson, using the local name for the State
University of Centralia, on the outskirts of Fenchester.

“Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “She’s a special. Lives down on Montgomery
Street with old Miss Pritchard.” His companion made a mental note of it.

“Were n’t you a golf-sharp in Kirk College?”

“Captained the team.”

“Well, if you really want to write a story about Miss Marcia Ames, watch
out for the team trials next month. The Record’ll print that all right.
Ay-ah,” he added reflectively. “And there’ll be no spiking of the story
by Mart Embree, either.”

“Senator Embree?” said Robson, surprised. “Where does he come in?”

“Did n’t happen to see him around The Record office before you went to
press yesterday, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Ay-ah. Thought he might ’a’ dropped in. He made a call on The
Guardian too.”

“What for?”

“Dove-o’-peace mission. Wanted to make sure that nothing would get in
about the ‘Star-Spangled’ business to stir up ill-feeling.”

There rose in Jeremy Robson’s mind the recollection of Farley’s
assurance to Embree, “You can rely on us;” which he had not before
connected with his slain masterpiece. Now he perceived with indignation
that it had been slaughtered to save a German holiday, at the hands of
the Honorable Martin Embree.

“He’s the one that put a crimp in my story, is he!”

“Not necessarily,” qualified The Guardian man. “Probably they would n’t
have run it anyway. But he wanted to be sure. That’s Smiling Martin’s
way. You don’t catch him missing many tricks.”

“What’s his interest?”

“Just to smooth things over and keep everything lovely. Rasping up the
comfortable Dutchers would n’t do anybody any good, according to his
figuring, and would only make things unpleasant.”

“A pussyfooter, eh?”

“Don’t you believe it,” returned Galpin. “Martin Embree will fight and
fight like the devil when he sees good cause for it. How else do you
think he could have got where he is?”

“I don’t know,” retorted the younger man sullenly. “But I don’t see
where he comes in to interfere with me.”

“Ask him.”

“I will. Where can I find him?”

“As quick as all that!” commented The Guardian reporter. He noted a
hardening of the small muscles at the corner of Robson’s mouth. “Scrappy
little feller, ain’t you!”

“Thanks,” said Jeremy Robson, with his sudden, pleasant grin. “I get
what you mean. Don’t think I’m going to make a fool of myself. Just the
same I _will_ ask him, if you’ll tell me where I can catch him.”

“’Round at Trask’s boarding-house, after dinner, most likely. That’s
where he lives.”

At Trask’s that evening Jeremy Robson ascended through a clinging aroma
of cookery, to a third-floor room, very tiny, very tidy, very much
overcrowded with books, pamphlets, a cot, and the spare squareness
of the Honorable Martin Embree. The visitor was somewhat surprised at
finding a political leader of such prominence so frugally housed. Embree
sat at a small table, making notes from a federal report on railroad
earnings. He lifted his head and Robson noted a single splash of gray
in the brown hair that waved luxuriantly up from the broad forehead. His
meetings with the Northern Tier leader had been casual: so he had
been the more flattered at Embree’s ready recognition on the previous
evening. Now he was struck anew with the soft, almost womanish
brilliance of the prominent eyes, and the sense of power in the upper
part of the face, sharpening down into shrewdness, in the mouth and
chin. A thoroughly attractive face, and more than that, a winning as
well as an impressive personality. Embree smiled as he greeted his
caller by name, and the reporter suddenly felt all the animus ooze from
his purpose. He still wanted to know the why and wherefore of Embree’s
action. But his interest in knowing was equally apportioned between
himself and his adversary. Characteristically, Jeremy went straight to
the point.

“I came to find out why you got The Record to kill my story.”

“Sit down.” The Senator relinquished his chair, motioned his visitor to
it, and seated himself on the edge of the cot. “Your story? What story
was that?”

“Why, about the band playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and
Miss -------- and just two people standing up for it.”

“Was it your story? I’m sorry if it was killed.” Embree’s tone was
of the simplest sincerity. “But it really was n’t my doing. I only
suggested to Mr. Farley that a mishandling of the episode might create
an unfortunate impression and incidentally reflect upon The Record. You
know how sensitive our German-Americans are.”

“It’d be better for us if we American-Americans were a little more
sensitive,” blurted Robson.

“You’re wholly right, Mr. Robson. I wish more of us had the spirit of
that young lady in the gallery. What a gallant little figure she was;
something knightly and valorous about her! And she, all alone.”

“There was Mr. Laurens,” suggested Robson.

“Quite another matter. For political effect only, and not in the best of
taste, I thought. If the chairman had n’t been a numskull he would have
called the whole audience to its feet, and the matter would have been
a graceful and pleasant and patriotic incident. But Felder is a
blunderhead. He stopped the music. I would have got the people up,
myself, in another two seconds.”

“Senator, you understand the Germans,” said the reporter, reverting to
his central interest. “I’d like you to read this and tell me if it would
have given offense to any decently loyal German-American.”

Martin Embree took the proofs, and leaned forward under the lamp to
read them. What Andrew Galpin had absorbed, almost in a glance, the
politician plodded through with exasperating slowness. Impatience gave
way to interest in the reporter’s mind, however, when he perceived that
his reader was perusing the galley a second time over.

“Well?” he inquired, as Embree raised his head.

The Senator’s fine smile enveloped him. “Frankly, it would n’t do.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Too much fervor.”

“It’s American fervor.”

“True. But it’s exclusively American. ‘All the rest of you not born
Americans, be damned!’ It’s--well--uncharitable.”

The writer’s color deepened. “You mean it’s unfair.”

“Not intentionally. But there are phrases in there that sneer.”

“They could be edited out.”

“Not so easily. I don’t think your writing would be easy to edit,
Mr. Robson. It hangs together pretty tight. But, so far as this is
concerned, I can plead ‘Not guilty’ to being an accomplice. I’m sure Mr.
Farley would never have let it get into print.”

“It was all set up.”

“But not OK’d, I assume. You see, Mr. Robson, one must live among our
Germans to understand them. They’re the best people in the world and
the highest-minded citizens. Germany is n’t a nation to them. It’s
a sentiment. It’s El Dorado. It’s music and poetry and art and
literature--and a fairy-land. Lay a profane hand on it, and they’re as
sensitive as children, and as sulky. But at heart they’re just as sound
Americans as you or I, and in politics they’re always for the right and
clean and progressive thing. All they need is to be humored in their
harmless and rather silly sentimentalism. You see, I’m talking to you
quite frankly.”

“And I appreciate it, Senator.”

“Well, I appreciate having seen this.” Embree tapped the proof with the
back of his finger. “Apart from the substance of it, I’m interested.
I’m mightily interested.” Jeremy Robson met his direct, intent gaze and
waited. “If I know anything about writing, you can write. There’s stuff
in this. It’s a real picture. Perhaps there was a touch of inspiration,
too.” His face became sunny again with its conquering smile. “Did you
know Miss Ames?”

“Not before the interview with her.” To his annoyance Jeremy Robson felt
his face grow hot. Had he written _that_ between the lines, too?

“No? A gallant figure. Young America; the imperishable spirit. Do
you think you could write like that--without special inspiration?” he
demanded abruptly.

“It’s the best story I’ve done yet. But I can beat it, when I’ve had
more experience.”

“Then this town is going to be too small for you.”

There was no tone of patronage or flattery in the rich, even voice.
“Were you thinking of staying here?”

“Until I learn the ropes. I want to own a pa--” Jeremy Robson stopped
short. Why should he be confiding his ambitions to this stranger, to
whom he owed nothing, unless an injury?

“A paper of your own,” concluded Embree. He fell thoughtful. “Ever write
any editorials?” he asked presently.

“No.”

“Why don’t you try it?”

“I don’t know. I never thought of it.”

“Think of it now.”

“Reporters aren’t supposed to go outside their own department.”

“Pshaw! A newspaper is like any other business; it needs all the ability
it can command. Now, I believe you could write editorials. And if you
care to try, I’ll be glad to speak a word to Mr. Farley.”

“That’s mighty good of you, Senator.”

“Not at all. Gives me a chance to set myself right in your mind,” smiled
the other, “for appearing to interfere with your activities. We need
a new paper, a new kind of paper here in the capital,” he added after
another of his pauses.

Jeremy Robson became uncomfortable. “I guess I’ve been talking
through my hat,” he confessed. “It must take a lot of capital to buy a
newspaper.”

“Not so much, for a small-city plant.”

“More than I’ll ever see, though.”

“If the right man came to light and proved himself, he might find
backing. That’s why I take an interest in the local newspaper situation.
It’s only a question of the right man. We’re looking for him.”

“I’d like to be that man,” blurted the caller.

“But _are_ you? That’s the question.” The Senator’s fine eyes twinkled.
But his tone was serious enough.

“How should I know, myself? I’ve only had a few months’ experience.
Unless you count college journalism.”

“I do,” answered the other unexpectedly. “A client of mine is a trustee
of Kirk College. I had occasion to follow the Kirk-Bell’s attacks on the
Board in the intercollegiate football mix-up. You were editing The Bell,
I believe.”

“Yes,” admitted Robson. “I guess we were a pretty brash lot.”

“All of that. And you were quite wrong. But you were fighting for what
you thought a principle, and I liked the way you fought.” He put up a
large, well-kempt hand and pushed a wave of hair back from his forehead.
“I’m fighting for a principle here.”

“Political?” said Jeremy Robson.

“Do politics interest you?”

“They make me sick,” returned the reporter vigorously.

“That’s bad. Why?”

“Because of the cheap skates and dumheads I run into whenever I get a
legislative job.”

“On behalf of myself and my colleagues, I thank you.”

Jeremy Robson blushed. “Well, you know I don’t mean you, Senator.”

“Possibly some of my associates are shrewder than you give them credit
for being. But the State Legislature is n’t politics. It’s only the
sieve through which politics pass. If you’re not interested in politics,
the newspaper business is n’t your line.”

“I did n’t say I was n’t interested in politics.”

“True enough. You did n’t.” Embree shot one of his reckoning glances at
the young fellow. “Well, if you can prove yourself--if you can fight
as well as you write and write as hard as you fight--you’re going to be
worth keeping an eye on. And I’m going to keep an eye on you for my own
reasons.”

“I’ll remember that,” said the reporter, rising, “when I come to try my
hand at editorial writing.”

“Sit down. Unless you’ve got some engagement.” Jeremy shook his head. “I
want to talk to you a little more.” Another of those pauses, which gave
the effect of being filled with considered thinking. “About myself,”
 finished the Honorable Martin Embree.

The visitor resumed his seat.

“Do you read your own paper?”

“Every word of it, every day.”

“Then you see an occasional editorial about your humble servant.”

“Yes.” Jeremy began to feel uncomfortable. The Record’s editorial
attitude toward the Honorable Martin Embree was, to put it mildly,
unsympathetic. “I was surprised to see you in the office,” he added
bluntly.

“Did you think I was as thin-skinned as that?” Em-bree’s smile was
good-humor itself. “Politically, Farley is my enemy. Personally, we
get along pleasantly. In his heart he knows I’m right,” announced the
Senator from the Northern Tier, with calm assurance.

“Then why does n’t he say so?”

“He’s only a hired man.”

“He’s editor-in-chief.”

“By title. The real boss is Clarence Ensign.”

Jeremy stared. “How’s that? I thought Mr. Ensign was nothing but a
traveling millionaire.”

“So he is, mostly. But he owns the controlling interest in The Record.
Absentee landlordism. It’s worse in a newspaper than in a mill, because
a newspaper is supposed to be representative of its public. Ensign’s
newspaper represents only the investments which let him sport around the
fashionable seaside places in his yacht. Because I’m after some of the
big interests that pay his graft-money, The Record is after me. It’s all
part of the game.”

As the politician proceeded to amplify on his theme, Jeremy Robson
became thoughtful. “See here, Senator,” he said at length, “suppose I
should ‘prove up,’ as you say, and should get backing for a paper, I’d
be just a hired man for my backers, would n’t I?”

“Not if you were strong enough to make yourself the necessary part of
the paper. But you’d have to believe in the policies of your backers.”

“I don’t believe I could believe in anything I had to believe in,”
 returned Jeremy quaintly.

“Correct answer,” approved Embree with emphasis. “No fellow could that’s
worth his salt. Anyway, it does n’t so much matter, provided you believe
in something and stick to your belief instead of singing whatever tune
you’re paid or ordered to sing.” Again, one of his frequent pauses.
“Like The Record and The Guardian.”

“The Guardian, too?”

“Oh, that’s worse. The Record at least represents its own interests,
even if they are pretty sordid. The Guardian is anybody’s hired man. Do
you know Wymett, the editor?”

“No.”

“He’s a crook.”

“That’s a short and ugly word, Senator.”

“Wymett’s a short and ugly animile. Short on payment of his obligations,
and ugly in a fight because you never know who he’s sold to last.
Though, at that”--and here the considering pause came in the middle of
the statement--“you can be pretty sure that Montrose Clark will have the
deciding word.”

“Is that the President of the Public Utilities Corporation?”

“That’s the man. Know him?”

“I’ve reported him at meetings, twice. He did n’t say anything much.”

“He never does, in public or for the public. What did you think of him?”

“I thought he was a pompous little stuffed shirt,” was the reporter’s
irreverent opinion.

“He’s pompous enough. But there’s brains behind those piggy eyes of his.
We were talking of politics. Well, Montrose Clark _is_ politics. He’s
politics, big.”

“I would have thought he was finance, and bluff.”

“Finance, of course. That is politics. Let me give you a one-minute
synopsis of the politics of this State. I told you the Legislature was a
sieve. Well, the men that feed and shake the sieve are the financial
and public utility interests; Montrose Clark representing the traction
crowd, Magnus Laurens representing the water-power grabbers, Robert
Wanser representing the banks, Sam Corliess representing the lake
shipping, Selden Dana representing the railroads, and so on. And our
newspapers are mostly just their little yellow dogs, useful to help put
over their deals and to fool the people. What we need, and we need it
right here in the capital, is a newspaper that will tell the people, not
fool them.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

The Senator’s earnest gaze flickered for a moment. “I,” he said, at
length. “I’m making this fight pretty near alone so far.”

“What fight is that?”

“The fight to get the control of the State away from the grafters and
exploiters and turn it over to the people. And I’m beginning to get the
support I need now.”

“From the German crowd?”

The Senator smiled at his caller with an expression almost affectionate.
“You would n’t take to politics much worse than a duck to water. Yes;
from the Germans largely. I’m a reformer, and I’m not ashamed of the
name. The German-Americans are solid for reform and clean government.
Government by corporations is never clean. It can’t be. It uses the kind
of tools that Wymett is.”

“The Guardian has offered me a job,” observed Jeremy.

“Don’t touch it,” advised the other earnestly. “They ’re on the ragged
edge. As I told you, Wymett is a crook. One of these days I’m going to
tell the State that.”

“Maybe I’ll be there to report it,” said the caller, smiling.

“Maybe you’ll be there (you should work into the legislative end, by
the way, for the experience); but you won’t report it. Your paper would
print any attack by Wymett on me that suited its purposes. But if I
proved Wymett to be a crook and a grafter--not a word in The Record.
That’s the way the papers hang together.”

“Well, that’s all right,” returned Jeremy stoutly. “Why shouldn’t
newspaper men stand together? Politicians do.”

“You feel that way about it?” The Senator’s tone was colder. “It’s
a question of fair play. However”--the sunny smile returned to his
face--“we’ve had a pretty straight talk, and I hope I’ve given you
something to carry away with you. I’ll admit my object is largely
selfish. I’m looking everywhere for the man who can eventually make a
newspaper for the public. It won’t come tomorrow, or next day. But it’ll
come some day. It’s got to. And don’t forget that editorial writing.
Make it mild, at first.”

Before he went to bed that night, Jeremy Robson had sketched out three
editorials. For a week he re-wrote and re-cast and polished them. To his
keen satisfaction, two of them were accepted. The third, which touched
upon the “Star-Spangled Banner” episode, most tactfully and in what the
writer deemed to be the broadest and most charitable spirit, was turned
down. Farley encouraged him.

“Keep it up, Robson. As soon as you’ve learned our ways you’ll fit into
the page.”




CHAPTER III


                   “Oh, happier he who gains not

                   The Love some seem to gain:

                   The joy that custom stains not

                   Shall still with him remain.

                   The loveliness that wanes not,

                   The Love that ne’er can wane.”


THE soft, young contralto voice floating out from the old house
on Montgomery Street, mingled with the breath of roses that spread
possessively over the veranda. A ripple of sparkling chords, like wind
passing over water, died away in a delicate and plaintive minor cadence.
A light footstep moved within the house. The voice, now not more than
a clear murmur, hummed in the hallway. Something told the listener and
lurker on the sidewalk that it were advisable he should be on his way.
To be caught staring, gawking and explanationless, before the Wondrous
Maiden’s domicile is not the happiest method of producing a favorable
impression upon the Wondrous Maiden, which latter was become the
immediate and predominant purpose of young Mr. Jeremy Robson’s
existence.

He passed on. After a score or more of paces he began to lag and waver.
Yet an undue hesitancy of spirit had never been reckonable as among
young Mr. Robson’s major failings. He had come along Montgomery Street,
which is a free public thoroughfare wherein any and all may pass,
without let or hindrance, upon their lawful occasions, a youth upright
and secure of himself. Nothing more formidable had marked his itinerary
than a singularly sweet young voice, singing to an unknown measure the
words of Mr. Andrew Lang’s haunting and wistful lyric. Yet young Mr.
Robson became instantly aware of strange symptoms within himself.
His pulse was markedly uneven. His eyes were affected by a spasmodic
inclination which all but twisted his neck about in the opposite
direction to that of his reluctant steps. His mind was a kingdom divided
against itself.

Arrived at the corner he found himself racked by conflicting muscular
intentions and inhibitions. He turned into Nicklin Avenue, leading
downtown to his proper occupation, and almost immediately executed
a rightabout-face. He returned to the corner, and rebounded from the
impact of an unreasoning and unmanning fear. Again he retraced his
steps and halted. His feet gave him the painful impression of a divided
allegiance, and he recognized and resented the invalidity of the poet's
praise of those supposedly useful members:

                   “I only have to steer ’em, and

                   They ride me everywheres.”

In the midst of his confusion he became hotly aware of the surprised
scrutiny of a small boy with a dog.

“Lost somethin’?” inquired the small boy, scornfully.

Jeremy Robson started. Was the urchin possessed of the spirit of
divination? Certainly young Mr. Robson had lost his nerve. That much he
confessed to himself. The small boy’s dog divined the fact also. He made
a charge upon the wavering youth with the evident intention of chasing
him up a tree. To be flouted in the open day by a cur of highly
impeachable antecedents was a little too much!

“Get out!” commanded Jeremy Robson, in a tone which left no room for
doubt.

The small boy and his dog retired hastily. Their intended victim,
somewhat reconstituted in soul by the victory, clinched his final
decision, not indeed without a sinking of the breath, and with a firm
tread and an unwavering eye (as he had once written of an unfortunate
going to his execution) again plunged into the imminent, deadly breach
of Montgomery Street, and headed for the old house amid the roses. He
reckoned that she would be just about on the porch now. If she were
n’t, he would go on past and make for the office, and try again on the
morrow. If she were--well, he had recovered command of at least three
matured and plausible lies to explain his presence. Then he saw her,
and the lies forsook and left him stranded with nothing better than the
truth to tell, if the issue rose.

She was standing at the top of the five veranda steps.

An errant wind weaving among the roses above her, let through swift
glints of sunlight, which played upon her face and hair with fairy
touches. There was a dreamy and wistful smile, as in lingering memory
of the music she had sung, upon her lips. Her face, broad at the temples
and narrowing down to a small, self-willed chin, was modeled nearer upon
the sensitive and changeful lines of the triangle than upon the cold and
classic oval. Above it the splendid mass of tawny hair was hardly kept
respectably within bounds by the prisoning devices of net and band. She
was slender, and firm-set, and straight with the soft and strong lines
of young, untainted health and vigor. By the warm hues, and the lithe
poise of her, she was a creature bred in the happy usages of sunlight
and free winds and the open spaces. Again he felt in her that subtle,
disturbing, starry quality that makes for dreams.

In her hand she swung a broad sun-hat. Reluctantly she lifted her arms
to set it on her head. The pulses of Jeremy Robson made a bound of
hopefulness. Evidently she was coming out upon the street. Her eyes were
lifted and he wondered that he could ever have thought them gray, so
flooded were they with hazel lights as they met the radiance, sifting
down through the trees. She turned them upon him and a slow recognition
grew in them. Opening the gate, she stood waiting. He lifted his hat as
he approached.

“Good-morning,” she greeted him in that voice which, with its
indefinable distinction of accent, had thrilled in his memory, since he
had first heard her speak.

He returned her greeting, calling her by name.

“It is The Record you write for, is it not?” she asked. “Yes. But they
don’t print all I write.”

“So I infer,” she returned with grave and intent eyes. “Were you
disappointed?”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I supposed that you had made up your mind that it was not worth writing
after all.”

“It was worth writing.”

“But not worth printing?”

“Worth printing, too. But the editors were afraid of offending the
Germans. So they killed it.”

“Did you write it in that way?”

“What way?”

“To offend the Germans.”

“No. I wrote it to show that there was a place for Americanism even in a
German meeting.”

“I am glad you did that,” she said quietly.

“You’ve a right to be. You’re responsible. For the way I wrote it, I
mean. You gave me the notion.”

“I am glad of that, too. But I am sorrier than ever that I did not see
your article.”

“Perhaps I’ll show it to you some day.”

She nodded, without asking him how or where. Marcia Ames was one of
those individuals who wait unquestioningly and accept generously. “It is
quite a coincidence my meeting you here,” she said. “For I wished to ask
you about the article.”

Behold the path now made plain for the lurker and retracer of steps!
No need even for those well-formulated lies; he could simply accept the
theory of coincidence. And, most unaccountably, he found that he could
n’t. Perhaps he could have, had he not looked into her eyes just then.
That steady, limpid, candid, confident regard of hers forbade even a
petty and harmless deceit of convenience. Once for all Jeremy Robson
knew that whatever might be between them in future, there would at least
be truth. And with a sharp pang, felt the foreboding that the truth
might yet hurt him to the limit of his capacity for pain.

“No,” he denied. “No coincidence.”

“Not?” she asked, surprised.

“I’ve passed here every day for the last ten days.”

“Do you live on this block?”

“No. In the other end of town, up near the University.”

“Then you would not pass here to go to The Record office.”

“Your geography is unimpeachable.”

“Is it a riddle? I am not at all clever at them.”

“It’s a confession. I’ve been coming this way day after day for a
particular purpose.”

“What was it?”

“To see you again.”

“What did you wish to see me about?”

“Nothing. Nothing in particular.”

“Just to see me? That is very nice of you.” She studied him with her
direct and serene regard. But a small and willful dimple materialized
on the brown curve of her cheek, and a little one-sided smile went up to
meet it. “Not as a reporter this time?”

“Not in the least. A reporter may be just an ordinary human being, off
duty, you know.”

“Are you just an ordinary human being?”

“Very much so. Don’t I strike you that way?” His tone was one of
exaggerated anxiety.

The girl studied him with impersonal interest, quite free from
embarrassment. Magnus Laurens had credited him with good looks. In the
usual sense, Miss Ames decided, confirming her first opinion, he was not
entitled to this credit. He was rather rugged of build and face, with
mobile lips, boyish and pleasant eyes, an obstinate jaw which looked as
if it might set to courage and endurance or perhaps to sullenness, and
the expression and bearing of one vividly and intelligently curious
about the life-scheme of which he was a part. The girl noted, with
approval, his dress: quietly harmonious in every detail yet without
suggesting the finicky habit; a style which would have been unremarkable
in New York or London, but which stood out with a pleasant distinction
among the more casual and careless garb of the Middle West.

“I really had not given it much thought,” she answered, having completed
her scrutiny. “Your methods seem rather out of the ordinary.”

“Are you a million years old?” he asked abruptly.

If his intention was to startle her, it failed signally. “Surely that is
a very personal question. I am not--quite. Why do you ask?”

“Because you look so like a kid and yet you’ve got the nerve--no, not
nerve--the confidence and manner of your own great-grandmother. It’s
very confusing,” complained young Mr. Robson, leaning dejectedly upon
the gate.

“Perhaps it arrives from my having been brought up abroad and much among
older people,” she surmised, with one of her slightly un-English turns
of phrase. “One reason for my coming here to the University is to
accustom myself to your American ways.”

“‘_Your_’ American ways?”

“Our American ways,” she amended sweetly. “Oh, I am all American in
my heart!” The gay and willful little dimple again materialized on her
cheek. “Still, one cannot remain indefinitely leaning over a gate in
conversation, however thrilling, with a young man whose name one does
not even know, can one?” she pointed out.

“You don’t know my name?” Young Mr. Robson looked distinctly annoyed.
“Mr. Laurens presented me. Don’t you remember?”

“But you were only a reporter who was going to write something about
me, then.” With an emphasis on the final word, slight, indeed, yet amply
sufficient to make amends.

Her caller brightened perceptibly. “Surname Robson. Given name, Jeremy.
Jem, when you get to know me better.”

She opened her eyes very wide to take in this idea. “You expect that we
are going to know each other so well as that?”

“We certainly are if I can bring it about. Don’t you think I’ve made a
good start?”

“At least a quick one. What is your next step?”

“That’s what’s worrying me a little.”

“But so progressing a young man as you, with so much perseverance,” she
taunted, “surely if you planned to see me once, you would plan how to
see me again. Perhaps, though, you do not wish to see me again soon,”
 she added, with an adorable mock-melancholy droop of the alluring lips.

“You’ll never win any guessing contests on that form, Miss Ames,” he
assured her, shaking his head solemnly. “But you’re right enough about
my having a plan. The question is, will it work.”

“Try it.”

“Here goes. You’re trying for the Varsity golf team, are n’t you?”

“I intend to, if I improve enough.”

“Are you pretty good?”

“I am steady. Only twice I have been as high as one hundred. But my
short approaches are bad.”

“I can help ’em.”

“Can you? Are you a good player?”

“Fair. But I’ll tell you what I am. I’m a good coach. We never lost an
intercollegiate at Kirk in the three years I captained the team.”

“And you offer to coach me? It is very kind of you.”

“Wait. It may not be so simple as all that.”

“Shall you exact terms?” she smiled.

“This depends on how much you are in earnest about making the team.”

“Very much.”

“Enough to get up at five in the morning and play a round?”

“Why such an unearthly hour?”

“It’s about the only time I can be sure of. Don’t forget I’m a
hard-working reporter.”

“I thought you wished me to forget it, only a moment ago,” she teased.

“I want you to remember that I’m a man,” he retorted, “besides being
a reporter. And that you and I are going to be friends.” He looked her
fairly in the eyes. “At least,” he added quietly.

The baffling lights in her eyes deepened as she met his gaze,
unwaveringly. “I believe that we are--at least,” she said. “When shall
we begin?”

“We _have_ begun.”

“The golf, I mean.”

“To-morrow.”

She laughed outright. “You lose no time.”

“I don’t know that I have any to lose. I don’t know how long you’re to
be here.”

“Nor do I,” she answered with a sudden gravity. “Very well; to-morrow. I
will meet you at the club house at 5.45. Oh! I forgot. My golf shoes are
at Eli Wade’s. You remember; the ‘Boot & Shoe Surgeon’?”

“I’ll get them this afternoon, and bring them with me.”

“‘Lo, Miss Marcy!”

The interruption, in a cheerful sing-song, came from behind Jeremy. He
turned to face the small boy and the dog of his earlier encounter.

“Good-morning, Buddy,” returned the girl.

“I’ve come to weed the sparr’grass.”

“Yes: we have been expecting you.”

“I stopped by home to get you these.” He brought out a fistful of
deep-hearted pansies, bound in a pink string.

The girl took them, gave him a little, quick pat of the hand which he
accepted with a flush of mingled adoration and embarrassment, and pinned
them at her throat.

“This is Mr. Burton Higman,” she said. “Mr. Jeremy Robson. To his
friends, Jem, and Mr. Higman to his friends, Buddy.”

Mr. Higman regarded Mr. Robson with a consideration in which there was
more of suspicion than friendliness.

“Where ’dje gittim?” he demanded of Miss Ames.

“I did not get him. He came,” explained the girl.

“Yep. I seen him before he got here. He was down on the corner, actin’
queer.”

“Hold on, now, Buddy,” protested the other, looking pained. “Don’t take
away a man’s character.”

Miss Ames motioned him to silence, and turned an eye of lively
anticipation upon the urchin.

“What was he doing?”

“Snake-turns. Walk down Nicklin Avenya; turn. Walk up to the corner;
turn again. Stop at the corner; talk to a tree. Walk down Nicklin Avenya
again; turn oncet more. Stand still. I watcht him.”

“What did he do then?” asked the girl, enjoying the discomfiture of her
caller.

The narrator rubbed one foot over the other and considered. “Sweat,” he
stated conscientiously. “Look at his collar.”

Mr. Robson’s involuntary hand and Miss Ames’ involuntary gaze met upon
the article of apparel indicated. It melted under the double pressure.

“Walked back up to Montgomery Street,” continued the conscientious
chronicler en joyably. “Stopped. Cussed the tree. Sweat some more.
Turned down Bank--”

“That will do, Buddy. You should be a detective.” Mr. Burton Higman
blushed in glory. The girl turned to the accused. “Is all this true?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Any mitigating circumstances?”

“I was screwing up my courage to face an ordeal.”

“What’s an ordeal?” demanded the watchful Mr. Higman.

“I am,” replied Miss Ames.

“Yep: I’m on,” observed her youthful admirer, enlightened. “Mr. Wade on
the School Board made us a talk Sat’day, about ordeals. Said each one of
us should adopt a high ordeal and stick to it. If you’re one, and I got
to do it, I choose to adopt you.”

“Buddy,” said his rival.

“Yep?”

“Will you sell out your claim for a dime?”

“No, _sir!_”

“For a quarter?”

“Nope.”

“Foradol--”

“Quit! No fair!” protested Mr. Higman in a voice of poignant agony.

“You’re right. It is n’t fair. Shake, old boy.” Young Mr. Robson
gravely shook young Burton Higman by the hand. “Between you and me, only
honorable and knightly rivalry. We’ll go fishing some day and talk over
high ordeals and other matters close to the heart.”

“And at present Buddy and I will map out the attack upon the asparagus,”
 said the girl.

She turned away, with a smile of dismissal for her informal caller.

As he took himself off, Marcia Ames turned to her other admirer. “Well,
Buddy. What do you think of him?”

“He’s a nut,” was the prompt and uncompromising decision.

“So bad? If it is bad. What is a nut?”

“Plumb crazy.”

“You think so? Perhaps, a little.”

“Plumb!” persisted the other jealously. But the innate and responsive
fair-mindedness of youth prompted him to add: “But, say! When he kinda
smiles that way at ye, it’s all off. There’s nothin’ to it. It gets you.
Ain’t it true?” inquired Buddy earnestly.

The unanalytical Buddy was flattered, thrilled, and faintly puzzled by
the instant response to this speech when, laughing, his goddess caught
him in a quick, warm little hug. He did n’t wholly understand why she
did it.

For that matter, neither did she.




CHAPTER IV


GOLF boots?” said Eli Wade, Boot & Shoe Surgeon.

“Fer the young lady at Miss Pritchard’s? Right here.” He held them up
to his own admiration. “A foot that’s _right_” said the Boot & Shoe
Surgeon. “Right _and_ light. Honest wear on them boots. Even as a die.
No sloppy, slovenly running down at one side of the heel. The wearer
of them boots carries her weight square an’ level, she does. She stands
straight an’ she walks straight. Yes, an’ she talks you straight, an’
looks you straight in the eye. Why did n’t she come for ’em herself,
same as she brung ’em? Not ailin’, is she?”

“I was going by this way, so I stopped in to save time,” said Jeremy
Robson.

“You’re welcome. But I’d ruther she’d come, herself. We had a good talk,
her an’ me, when she brung in the boots.” He wrapped them up clumsily
but carefully. “A good operation,” stated the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. “An
_extry_ good operation. But no extry charge.”

A figure stirred in a long canvas chair in the corner. From it came a
mutter in which the words “Scab-work” in a contemptuous tone were alone
comprehensible. The figure reared a white-thatched head, and a keen,
lined face, above a sinewy neck set upon a spare frame. “Rich, ain’t
she?” said the figure. “Let her pay extry, then, for extry work.”

“Rich she may or may not be,” replied the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. “Proud
she ain’t. Comes in here as free as fresh air an’ as pleasant. ‘Mr.
Wade?’ s’ she. ‘Doctor Wade, when I’m in the Surgery, Miss,’ s’ I.
‘Doctor Wade, you get my trade,’ s’ she, and laughed a little, for she
had n’t meant to say it that way. ‘That’s as purty a rhyme as ever I
heard in my life, Miss,’ s’ I. I looked at the boots. ‘Furrin?’ s’ I.
‘Yes,’ s’ she. I looked up at her. ‘Furrin?’ s’ I. ‘No,’ s’ she.
‘American,’ s’ she. ‘As American as you are.’ ‘Glad to hear it,’ s’ I.
‘You must be an American from ’way-back,’ s’ I, ‘fer the Wades f’m
Wal-_tham_? s’ I, ‘have fit in every war f’m the Revolution sence, all
an’ inclusive, an’ I reckon to live to fight in the comin’ one, ef they
take ’em over sixty years of age,’ s’ I. ‘What is the comin’ one,
Doctor Wade?’ s’ she. ‘Why, the war when us Americans has got to get
together and fight for Americar against all these durn fur-riners that
think they own the earth,’ s’ I. ‘That’s the comin’ war as I reckon it,
an’ I guess it’s comin’ right here in Centralia an’ through the Middle
West purty soon unless we figger to let ourselves get shewed plum off
the map,’ s’ I. Then she told me about noticin’ the flag an’ the motter
in my winder, an’ says that’s why she brung me her trade, an’ she hopes
the flag ’ll stay there, fer trade follers the flag, s’ she, or ought to
in sech a good cause. An’ she laughs that laugh of hern, like music, an’
we settled down an’ had a real good palaver. So,” said the Boot & Shoe
Surgeon, “she gets a low-priced, extry-good operation. Though I’m bound
to say, she’d ’a’ got somethin’ extry jest on the straight way she
wears shoe-leather.”

“You read character from shoes, then,” commented Jeremy Robson, mildly
amused.

“What’d I be if I couldn’t? A cobbler! A leather-patcher! Not a genuwyne
Boot & Shoe Surgeon. Character in shoes? Of course there is. Lemme see
yours.” He lifted up first one, then the other foot of his visitor, as
if he were a horse, and shook his head soberly over them.

“You stumble,” he said. “You ain’t struck your gait, yet. Bump up
against things when there’s no sense in it. Foolish. Obstinit, too, I
would n’t wonder. Lazy? M-m-m! I dunno. I guess you like the easy way
an’ a clear path pretty good. If you’re sensible an’ saving, better
leave them shoes with me for a little toning-up.”

“Will you undertake to improve my character with the improvement to my
shoes?”

“Laugh at me if you like. You don’t laugh at folks that believes in
palmistry. What’s a man’s palm to read! He can change every line in
it with a hoe, or an awl, or a golf-stick. But his shoes! Ah! As a man
walks, so he is. An’ his shoes tell the tale. Take these, young man.”
 The Boot & Shoe Surgeon laid an affectionate hand upon Miss Marcia Ames’
boots. “Study ’em. They’ll repay you. There’s courage an’ clean pride
an’ a warm heart that travels the path she walks. Yes; an’ a touch of
vanity--Why not? An’ a temper of their own, them boots. Hot an’ quick
an’ generous. You’ve got to travel some to keep pace with them boots. I
dunno when I’ve had a pair to match ’em. Here’s another pair ’ll go far.”
 He lifted them into view. “Hand-made, stout-made, and serviceable.
They ’re climbers, they are! They ’ll reach the high places--if they don’t
slip.”

“Who owns them?”

“The Honorable Martin Embree.”

“A faker,” grunted the white-haired figure.

“A climber. A hustler. A fighter. No faker. Yet--they may slip,” said
the diagnostician, studying the sole of the left boot. “They _may_ slip.
Gave me some advice, when he saw my winder. ‘Leave the flag, but take
out the motter,’ s’ he. ‘There’s no sense in that “It stands alone.”
 The country is big enough an’ broad enough for all nationalities, an’
welcome,’ s’ he.’”

“Sensible enough,” growled the figure in the chair. “But he’s a faker.
A half-heart. All for the people in words. But put it up to him in
deeds--he ain’t there.”

“He’s a Socialist,” explained the Boot & Shoe Surgeon, pointing his awl
at the chair. “Nicholas Milliken. Make you acquainted. What did you say
your name was?”

“Jeremy Robson,” said its owner, who had n’t yet said anything of the
sort.

The figure in the chair for the first time honored him with its
attention.

“On The Record?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Reporter?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve got the soul of a louse.”

“Soft words, Nick,” prescribed Eli Wade.

“Soft words? Hard facts! The soul of a louse!”

“Who the devil are you?” demanded Jeremy.

“A Socialist,” repeated the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. “Don’t mind him.”

Milliken rose and stood before the subject of his com-temptuous phrase;
long, lean, dry, and bitter. “Me?” said he. “I’m a man. I’m no hired
pen. I write for The Free-Thinker, when I write.”

“Rest of the time he sets type on The Record,” explained Wade.

“That’s it. Many a time I’ve run the stick over your stuff.”

“It seems to have made an unfavorable impression on you,” remarked
Jeremy.

“Oh, you can write.” The other flung the concession to him
condescendingly. “I grant you that. What good does that do you? You’ve
got to trim your facts to your owner’s orders, have n’t you?”

“Not facts,” denied the reporter with some heat. “Facts are facts. I
don’t trim them for anybody.”

“Nobody trims them after they’re written, either, I suppose.”

The tone was not to Jeremy’s liking. “The copy-desk--” he began.

“Oh, cut the guff! The copy-desk is a hired blue pencil, just like
you’re a hired pen. You know what I mean. Why did n’t they print your
story on the girl at the Federated German Societies meeting? Was n’t it
facts? Was n’t it good enough?”

Jeremy was silent.

“I’ll tell you,” resumed the implacable Socialist. “They were afraid.
Afraid of the German crowd. Call their souls their own? Not any more
than you can.”

“What about yourself, Nick?” put in the proprietor of the place. “You
take The Record’s money, the same as this gentleman, only maybe not so
much of it.”

“Do I sell myself for it? Would I write for The Record? Or any other of
the capitalistic press? Eli Wade, you’re honest, you are. A fool, but
honest. You don’t know what a reporter’s got to do to hold his job. Why,
if you was to get into some mix-up over a pair of shoes with the owner
of his paper to-morrow, he’d be sent down here to write you wrong,
whether you were right or wrong, and he’d do it. He’d have to do it.
That’s what comes of a privately owned press, under our capitalistic
system.”

Through the gross exaggeration Jeremy felt the point of a half-truth and
resented it. “No decent reporter would do it,” he asserted.

“Who said anything about ‘decent’ reporters?” countered the other.

Jeremy’s face changed; his weight shifted slightly upon his feet. Not so
slightly but that the pedal diagnostician noticed the movement. “Want to
get your eye punched?” he inquired, of Milliken. “You’re going the right
way for it.”

The Socialist grinned wickedly and relishingly. “Don’t like that, huh?
All right. Come to me a year from now and tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll
apologize. That’s fair. Ain’t it?”

“That’s fair,” corroborated the Boot & Shoe Surgeon.

“Mind you,” continued the Socialist, pursuing his favorite path of
self-explication; “I would n’t ha’ printed your story, either. It was a
fool story. Ain’t the Germans just as good as we are? Better ’n a lot
of us. They believe in the rights o’ men, they do. None of your dirty
aristocratic notions about them. Look at Germany! Most Socialistic
country in the world to-day. Most civilized, too.”

“Let ’em stay in their own country, then,” said Eli Wade. “We don’t
want ’em.”

“Ah, but we do! We need ’em to help on the Social Revolution.”

“My folks fit in one American Revolution,” said the

Doctor stoutly. “I don’t reckon none of us is going to fight in another
led by Germans and crazy folks.”

“You’ll come around,” laughed Milliken. “You’ll live to be ashamed of
that silly motto in your window. Take it out! Take it out, Eli Wade, and
put the Red Flag of World-Brotherhood in its place.”

“Above the American flag, mebbe?”

“Along with it. My stock’s as good Yankee as yours, Eli. But I’m ready
to fight again for libutty, and you ain’t. You read too much in the
capitalistic press. Some day you’ll be reading this young feller’s
editorials, all about the rights o’ capital and what the laboring man
owes to his employer.”

“You will not,” said Jeremy.

“Trying your pen at editorials, ain’t you?”

“Have you been setting those up, too?”

“Exactly. You’ll land. You’ve got the knack. The slick, smooth, oily
trick of making the thing seem what it ain’t. So pretty soon I’ll have
to take that back about your having the soul of a louse. You’ll be worse
than that. I’ll tell you what you’ll be.” And he told, naming a very
ancient and much blown-upon profession.

“That’ll be enough an’ some-to-carry from you,” said the Boot & Shoe
Surgeon indignantly. “Get out of my place an’ don’t come back until
you’ve cleaned your dirty tongue.”

Resentment of his brusque dismissal was far remote from Mr. Nicholas
Milliken’s philosophic mind, if one were to judge by the cheerful smile
with which he rose. “All right, old moozle-head!” he returned
affectionately. “He fires me about once a week,” he explained to Jeremy.
“That’s when he can’t stand any more good, plain facts. They boil over
on him and out I go, with the steam. Don’t you mind me, either, young
feller. You’ll see I’m right, one day. We’re all bound upon the Wheel of
Things, as the old Lammy said to Kim. Supprised, are you, that I know
Roodyerd Kipling?” He preened himself with a childish vanity. “I read
everything! The old Lammy was a bit of a Socialist himself. All bound
upon the Wheel of Things. And if I see a little clearer than you, it’s
only because I happen to be bound a turn or two higher up.”

The ineffable patronage of this amused Jeremy into good humor. “I’ll
call on you for that apology, though, one of these days,” he said to the
parting guest, Eli Wade looked after Milliken with a frown. “Them shoes
of his have got a gallows gait,” he declared. “Lawless paths! Lawless
paths! Why do I stand his bitter tongue? I guess it’s because he makes
me think. I wish I had his education,” sighed the old man.

“Where did he get it?”

“Picked it up. Libraries, night schools, and the like. He was a New
England mill-hand, always in hot water. Stirrin’ up labor troubles an’
all that. Picked up typography an’ drifted out here. A quirky mind an’ a
restless one, an’ a bad course it sets for his feet to follow,” said the
gentle, one-ideaed old philosopher of foot-gear. “But not a bad heart,
Nick has n’t. Come in again, young gentleman,” he added. “Not in the
way of trade. Come in an’ talk with the old man. One of you newspaper
gentlemen drops in for a chat, often. Mr. Galpin of The Guardian. You’ll
know him, I guess?”

“Very well.”

“Them are his spare shoes, yonder. Rough, ordinary, plain articles.
Plodders. But good wearing stuff in ’em an’ right solid on the ground,
every inch. Slow-moving,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Yes; they’ll move
slow, but they won’t never wobble. An’ don’t think to trip up the man
that walks in ’em. It ain’t to be done.”

“I believe you’re right, there.”

“Right? Cert’nly I’m right. Leather never lies. Not good leather.
An’ poor leather’s a dead give-away. My museum of soles.” He waved a
showman’s hand toward the rows of shoes suspended neatly in brackets
of his own devising against the walls. “Look at them Congress gaiters.
Would n’t you know they was a banker’s belongings? Robert Wanser,
President of the Trust Company. Full and easy and comfortable and mebbe
a little sly in the gait. But there’s weight in ’em. Don’t get in
their way. There’s Rappelje’s next ’em; Professor Rappelje, of the
University. Queer neighbors. Straight and thin and fine finished, his
gear. Mebbe a little pinchy. But a man to swear by. And Bausch: them
high-button calfs. He’s a buster. Busts his buttons off. One of them
big, puffin’-up Germans. Always marching. Tramp-tramp-tramp: the
goose-step. Nothin’ o’ that in that lot on the end. Judge Dana. See the
ball of the soles? Worn down. Creeps, he does. Guess he can jump too,
after he’s crept near enough. An’ that pair below, on the right. That’s
a shuffler. Mr. Wymett. Owns The Guardian and runs it. Now here’s a
mincer. Dainty an’ soft he goes an’ dainty an’ soft he lives: the Rev.
Mr. Merserole, rector of our rich folks’ church. For all that, there’s
stuff an’ weight in his shoes.” His hand hovered and touched a pair of
elegantly made, low, laced Oxfords, of almost feminine delicacy. “Style
there, eh? Know what they want, those shoes. Got to be jest so. Spick
an’ span. They say Montrose Clark never has to pay to have ’em
cleaned.”

“Why is that?” asked Jeremy, responsive to the look of invitation in the
old man’s eye.

“Got so many boot-lickers around him,” chuckled the philosopher. “Kick
you as soon as look at you, those would, for all they look so finicky.”

“I’ll come in to see you when I need pointers about people,” said
Jeremy, smiling.

The Boot & Shoe Surgeon handed him the repaired golf-boots. “I’m an
ignorant old man,” he said, “but I know folks’s feet and sometimes I can
guess what path they’ll take. I’ve been talking pretty free to you, Mr.
Robson, for a stranger. But I reckon you’re trustable, ’spite of what
Nick Milliken says.”

“I reckon I am, Doctor Wade,” returned Jeremy, and believed himself as
he said it.

“Yes: the old man likes to talk,” confessed Eli Wade; “an’ about people.
Gossip, some call it. That’s a silly word. What’s history but gossip
about folks that are dead? But, of course, a man like me has to be
careful who he talks to, being in public life.”

“Certainly,” acquiesced the amused Jeremy. “But I did n’t know you were
in public life. What office do you hold?”

“I’m on the Fenchester Public School Board,” said Eli Wade with simple
but profound pride.




CHAPTER V

BOBOLINK on a grass-tuft piped ecstatic welcome to a long-lost friend,
the sun. Five gray and weary days had passed since that amiable orb had
bestowed so much as one uncloaked beam upon birds and men, and on each
of those rain-soaked days, Jeremy Robson had racked his overstrained
vocabulary for new objurgations against the malign fates which had
spread a watery barrier between himself and Marcia Ames. Now the sun was
an hour above the eastern horizon with a flawless sky outspread like
a luxurious carpet for its day’s journey. Secure at that hour in the
undisputed possession of the earth, bobolink swayed and sang, when to
its wrath and amaze a shining missile descended from the sky and bounded
with sprightly twists toward its chosen choir-loft.

“Sliced into the rough again,” said a voice of despair from the hollow
below, and two figures appeared, headed toward the singer, who moved on
with an indignant and expostulatory chirp, but found another perch still
within ear-shot.

“Because you will _not_ keep your head down,” reprehended the deeper
tones of the young man.

Bobolink stretched his liquid throat in a love-song. He sang the
warm sweetness of the earth, and the conquering glory of the sun; the
breeze’s kiss and the welcome of the flower for the bees, and youth
which is made up of all these and comes but once. Out of a full heart he
sent forth his missioning call to young hearts; then, as the girl turned
an exquisite face toward him, he waited for her response.

“That is four,” said she, “and I am not out yet.” And she hewed away a
whole clump of innocent daisies, with one ferocious chop.

“You should have used a niblick the first time,” observed the young man.

Perceiving that romance had forever departed from the human race when,
on such a May morning, such a maid and such a youth could satisfy their
soul with such conversation as this, bobolink flew away to a tussock in
an adjacent field where his own private romance was safe hidden.

To versatile human kind, it is given to make love in many and diverse
manners uncomprehended of the bird species. Not the least ingenious
of his species, Mr. Jeremy Robson had marked out as his first step the
establishment of a systematic association with Miss Marcia Ames, through
golf; and until that association could be trusted to walk alone, as it
were, he purposed to confine his attention strictly to the matter in
hand. Her desire to make the college team was a very genuine one, and he
guessed her to be a young lady of no small determination. Therefore, he
was well satisfied to observe that, on this their first experiment as
teacher and pupil, she was playing rather poorly. This meant longer and
more arduous practice. At the end of the first round, during which he
had devoted close attention but scant suggestion to her performance, he
was four up and her card showed a painful total.

“Fifty-twos will never land you anywhere,” was the conclusion which he
derived from the addition.

“What is to be done?” she asked in her precise English. “I grow worse.”

“Do you read Ibsen?” he inquired.

“I have read him a great deal. But not upon golf,” said Miss Ames with
raised eyebrows.

“Does your playing suggest any particular character of his?”

“You are being absurd. Or is it one of your riddles, at which I am not
clever?”

“I’m giving you a test in self-analysis. ‘The Ibsen character whom you
suggest, particularly when you play your iron shots, is Little Eyolf. The
l silent, as in ’Hades.’”

“I do not think that a very funny joke,” she said scornfully.

“It’s been turned down by three comic papers, though,” he defended.

“Then why must I bear it?”

“To make the point stick in your memory. Once, quite early in the
morning, I came around the corner of a barn on a Philadelphia golf
course, and there was a nice-looking elderly lady whom I had seen the
day before taking her two small grandchildren out walking, addressing
a ball with a brassie and saying, ‘Eye on the ball; slow back; carry
through. Eye on the ball; slow back; carry through,’ over and over
again. Brassie shots were her weakness. The next day that persevering
old grandma went out and made low score in the National Women’s
Championship. Now, if you’ll just think of yourself as Little Eyolf
until you’re good and mad, it’ll help do the trick.”

“What were you doing in Philadelphia?” inquired the girl irrelevantly.

“Not golfing,” he returned. “So, if you don’t mind, we’ll postpone that.
This is a golf lesson, and right here the serious business of the day
begins. The first consideration is to cure you of star-gazing. You
appreciate that that’s your main trouble?”

“Raising my head, you mean?”

“That’s it. Star-gazing, we call it.”

“It occurs because I forget myself.”

“And mostly on your irons. You get your wooden shots off clean. Now,
let’s drive.”

Two straight shots flew down the course, his the longer by fifteen
yards. A ninety-yard approach lay before her.

“Beginneth here the first lesson,” said Jeremy. “It’s a sure cure,
on the homoeopathic principle. Invented it myself for a fellow on
our college team who was a stargazer, and he showed his gratitude by
eliminating me from the individual championship, that fall.” He took a
cardboard box from his pocket, and extracted from it one of a number
of small, gilt stars such as stationers carry in stock. This he pressed
down upon the grass so close behind his pupil’s ball as almost to touch
its lower arc. “Behold the star of your hopes.”

“What am I to do with it?”

“Keep your eye on it--if you can.”

“Until after I have struck the ball?”

“Longer than that. After you’ve played, step forward and plant the sole
of your foot on the star. But you won’t be able to do it. Not the first
time.”

“I shall,” said the girl with quiet conviction.

Taking her stance, she measured the distance with a careful eye, and
sent the ball off with a clean click. Her head remained bent with an
almost devotional intentness. She stepped forward and covered the star
with that boot which Eli Wade had so warmly praised.

“Good!” approved the instructor. “You’ve got will power.”

“I have needed to have,” replied the girl. Her tone was curiously musing
and confidential. “May I look up now?”

“Surely. ‘You’ll like the view.”

The ball, rising high, had landed upon the edge of the green and rolled
to within ten feet of the cup.

“Oh!” she cried. “Do you suppose I could do it again?”

“Any number of times, if you’ll keep your eye on the star.”

“But one could not carry about a box of stars in a match, could one?”

“One could. But it won’t be necessary. Two weeks’ practice at that will
get you clean out of the Little Eyolf habit.”

“Will it, indeed? But why do you look so intently at the spot?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy hastily. “It was your boot--I mean, I
was thinking what that queer old codger Eli Wade said when I went after
your boots.”

“And was _that_ golf?” inquired Miss Ames with a demure and candid air.
“No? Then, if you do not mind, we will postpone it, shall we not?”

“Stung!” confessed Jeremy. “We shall.”

The bestarred second round cut no less than five strokes from the score
of the gratified pupil and her even more highly pleased instructor. This
in spite of the fact that she had once lifted her head and perpetrated a
lamen table foozle, whereupon Jeremy gravely pasted one of the stars on
the toe of her left boot: “To keep you reminded,” he explained.

“But,” he added, “you’ve got to clip at least three more strokes off to
be safe. That’ll take you all your time.”

It took a disproportionate amount of Jeremy Robson’s, too, which, to do
him justice, he did not begrudge. As a corollary to the morning lessons
he took to dropping in at the Pritchard mansion of an evening to discuss
some of the more abstruse points of the game, where he found himself in
active competition with the picked youth of the University and the town,
for Miss Marcia gathered a court as irresistibly as a flower gathers
bees. Quite unjustifiably Jeremy was inclined to sulk a bit over this,
unmindful of the favor of the gods in affording him her undivided
companionship in those early morning hours. Whereupon the gods, as
is their custom, withdrew their unappreciated bestowals. Buddy Higman
discovered the golf practice and straightway volunteered as caddy.
Jealousy as well as desire to be of service to the liege lady prompted
his offer, which was straightway accepted. So the morning practice
continued while bobolink from his daisied choir-loft (no longer invaded
by balls wandering from the straight and narrow path which leads to
the House of Bogie) alternately cheered and jeered at this chaperoned
companionship.

One stroke, two strokes, and finally five strokes were subtracted from
the aspirant’s nine-hole score. Her master gave her his blessing and
told her to go in and win. In the Varsity competition, she qualified
with a highly respectable round, and in the play-off for the team,
won her place. The team captain posted the choice for the yearly match
against Kirk College on the athletic bulletin, one line of which read:

No. 4--M. Ames.

In special celebration of the event, the pupil accepted an invitation to
dine at the Country Club that evening with the instructor.

“Will you make an agreement?” she asked, as they faced each other across
the little table, pleasantly remote in a far corner of the veranda.

“Unsight-unseen?” he smiled. “All right. I’ll swap.”

“That is quite too American for me. But you agree. Then let us not speak
the word ‘golf’ all this evening. I am tired of it.”

“Stale,” commented the expert. “You must lay off for a week. Well, let’s
forget it. What shall we talk about?”

“What are you doing here in Fenchester?”

He smiled at the directness of the question. “Plain and fancy
reporting.”

“You do not seem to belong here.”

“What makes you think that?”

She considered him meditatively. “I suppose it was your clothes, first.
You dress differently from the others. More like the men I have known
over there.”

“Remnants of past glory,” he assured her lightly. “I have n’t always
lived here, you know.”

“Where then? Do you mind my asking?”

“Not a bit. I’ve drifted about doing worthless things for several years.
Philadelphia mainly, New York a little. Getting myself mis-educated. You
see, I’m something of a failure.”

“You should not say that even in fun. I do not like to hear it.”

“It is n’t in fun. Ask my aged and highly respectable great-aunt, Miss
Greer, in Philadelphia, and you’ll learn something to my disadvantage.”

“I shall,” said the girl gravely, “if I ever go back there. Did you live
with her?”

“For a time. After my college course she sent me on a year’s tour and
then made me take one of those ornamental post-graduate courses that
lead into the lily-fingered occupations that are neither professions nor
business. She had a fond hope that I’d take to diplomacy.”

“No!” said the girl with unflattering surprise. “I know many diplomats.
I do not think you would be successful there.”

“I’m about as diplomatic as a punch in the eye,” admitted her companion.
“The old lady considered it plumb disgusting of me not to take to
refined international mendacity. But then I did n’t take to much of
anything else that she laid out for me. I had vulgar tastes. I wanted to
go into the newspaper business, and when I’d learnt it, have Great-Aunt
kindly buy me a paper to play with. Great-Aunt did n’t see it that way.
She cut me off with a small amount of hard cash and a large amount
of hard talk, and I took a School of Journalism course and eventually
drifted out here because I liked what I remembered of the town and
wanted to bore in where I was n’t hampered by friends and acquaintances.
Does that strike you as a record of glowing success? Considering that
I’m nearly twenty-seven years old, and have n’t made a scratch on the
face of the world yet?”

“But you began late,” condoned his companion. “And you are still
learning. But I cannot see why your aunt should object to your wishing
to own a newspaper. One would say, a harmless ambition.”

“One that I’m quite unlikely to realize, now. As for its being
harmless, why, my dear child--excuse the freedom of an aged
golf-professor--there’s a charge of dynamite in every font of type.”

“Then you have a penchant for high explosives?”

“Have I? I don’t think I’d put it that way,” mused Jeremy. “I’ve a taste
for adventure. And running a newspaper of your own has always seemed to
me about the liveliest and most adventurous job going. But I don’t want
to blow things up.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Oh, just to have a hand in things, in a real, live American community
like this, where the soil is good and new ideas sprout. I’d like to get
into the political fight, too. A really good one, I mean, with something
worth aiming at.”

“That I can understand. But I still fail to make you fit into this
environment.”

“What about yourself?” he countered “Have n’t you rather the air of
coming out of the great world and condescending to this raw and rural
town?”

“Have I? Have I been condescending to you?”

“If you had, it would be more than I deserve,” he said contritely. “I’d
no business to say that. And I did n’t mean it, anyway. But this is a
queer place for you to be, is n’t it?”

“Not for my purposes?”

“Are you specializing at Old Central?”

“One might call it that. I made inquiries for the most typically
American college, and a list was made up for me. I chose the University
of Centralia to be with my mother’s cousin, Miss Pritchard.”

“Just like that? All yourself?”

“All myself,” she assented gravely.

“You came here to get Americanized?”

“Yes. My mother married again. A German. A man of great scientific
attainments and high position. He is very gentle and vague and
absent-minded, and good to me. And when I told them that I would like
to take my own money and come here to my own country for a year
before”--she hesitated almost imperceptibly--“before anything was
settled for me, he consented. Think what a wrench it must have been for
his old-world prejudices against emancipated women and all that!”

“Yet I don’t think you need Americanizing. You’re a real American type
if there ever was one.”

She flushed a little. “I like to hear that. My father would have liked
it. What makes you say it?”

“It’s--it’s your honesty, I think. There’s a quality of frankness about
you that could be--well, almost brutal, I think. Do you know what I
mean?”

“I suppose I am a crank. That is American enough, is it not?” she
laughed. “A crank about the truth. I hate anything that even suggests
a lie, or a dodging, or an evasion. So perhaps I should not like your
newspaper profession.”

“But that’s just it!” he cried eagerly. “If one had a paper of one’s
own, he could make his own rules for the game.”

“If he were big enough--and brave enough.”

“Brave enough,” he repeated. “Eli Wade said that about you, too. Reading
your character from your shoes, you know. That you had courage and
honesty. I think he thought it a rare thing in a woman.”

“It is not,” she flashed. “But if I have, it is no credit to me. I have
wholly loved and trusted only one person on earth. That was my father,
and he was the soul of truth. So, some of my friends laugh at me a
little and think me a crank, because I have--what do you Americans--_we_
Americans say?--no use for any one whom I cannot wholly trust.”

“And you would be hard, too,” he said.

“Perhaps. If I were, it would be because I could not help it. I think
that I do things because something inside makes me before I have even
time to consider, sometimes.”

“Like your standing up alone at the Federated German meeting. By the
way, I brought my story of it for you to read.”

She held out her hand for the proofs. “I am glad,” she said.

She read it, slowly and studiously, and as she read an expression, new
to Jeremy in the changeful charm of her face, puzzled his watchful eyes.

“It is very vivid,” she said, “and enthusiastic.”

She rose. On their way back to the Pritchard house she plied him
with questions bearing on the technique of journalism. As he stood,
bareheaded under the porch light looking up at her, she asked:

“May I keep the proof of the article?”

“Yes. You like it, then?”

“I love it. But I am glad that it was not published.”

“Why?”

“There is too much Me in it.” She paused. “Did I seem to you like
that--then?”

“Yes. And more.”

She shook her head. “I am glad that it was not published,” she repeated.
“It would have said to too many people--” She hesitated.

“What?” he asked.

For the first time her eyes faltered before his. They were hesitant, and
deep-shadowed and troubled.

“What?” he repeated.

“What should have been said to only one.”

“Marcia!” he cried.

But the door had closed on her and he barely heard her soft-toned
“Good-night” from beyond its jealous interception.




CHAPTER VI

ABSTENTION from the art and practice of golf for one week had been
Professor Robson’s ukase. Had he foreseen the course of more personal
events he would never have issued it. For he now had no opportunity of
seeing his pupil alone. Nothing so direct as avoidance could be charged
against her. But since that parting on the Pritchard porch, he had never
been able to achieve so much as two minutes of her undivided time.
Her eyes, when they met his only to be swiftly withdrawn, were sweetly
troubled. The Eternal Feminine within her was, for the time at least,
in flight. And along those paths of delicate elusiveness, the clumsy and
pursuing feet of man stumble and trip. Jeremy’s soul was sorely tried
and not less sorely puzzled.

If he found difficulties in Marcia’s attitude, his own future course
with regard to her was dubious. What could he, in his position and with
his resources, ask of her? To wait? Certainly nothing more than that.
And was even that much fair to her? His own feeling was simplicity
itself. Life had, in these few short weeks of association, summed and
compressed itself into his love for Marcia Ames. Until that
abrupt change in the tone of their relations brought about by her
half-acceptance of his devotion, she had never evinced anything more
than a frank and confident comradeship. Now he felt that he might
speak--if he could find opportunity. That he could not, almost caused
him to accuse Marcia of unfairness. Yet could he honorably ask her to
marry him and tie herself to a meager and as yet unpromising career?
Within himself Jeremy had begun to assume that confidence of future
success which comes with the assured sense of workmanship. He would
cheerfully gamble his own future on it. But how could he ask her to risk
hers? Even supposing that she cared for him! There was the thought that
ached; the uncertainty of it. In any case he had to know how it stood
with him in her heart.

Upon her inviolable truthfulness he could depend for a full and fair
answer, if he were able to state his case. He knew that all her frank
and unevasive courage would answer to his demand; that she would look
that fate, or any other, steadily in the eyes. But not before her own
good time. And that the time was not yet, became sufficiently apparent,
one week before the match when the lessons were resumed, for with
the resumption Buddy Higman was quietly established at once as caddy,
chaperon, and dragon with the added qualities of the modestly adhesive
burdock. The skill and technique of “No. 4.--M. Ames” prospered and
improved mightily, which is more than can be said of the disposition of
her instructor.

Some men’s work would have suffered. Not Jeremy’s. He was of that
fortunate temperament which, keeping its troubles to itself, boils them
out into steam and transforms the steam into energy. Besides, he had now
“the grip of his pen.” He derived a glowing satisfaction from the expert
performance of his craft. The editorial page was hospitable to him,
especially for contributions in lighter vein. Many special assignments
for work out of the ordinary, calling for a knack of description or
characterization, came to him. His writings were beginning to earn
the knighthood conferred by the clipping shears and the paste-pot.
Newspapers in larger cities than Fenches-ter copied and privately asked
questions about them. But what made it all so worth while, what gave
a touch of exaltation to the dogged purpose for success, was the
conviction that all this forwarded him upon the road which led to
Marcia.

The tournament with Kirk College, on the Fenchester Country Club
grounds, was now two days away. Jeremy had asked for and obtained the
assignment to cover it. He had long before applied for and received the
job of caddying for No. 4 of the team opposing his own college, which
was regarded by the visiting Kirks as an ignoble instance of loyalty
corrupted by the baser passions. However, Jeremy was perfectly willing
that Kirk should win; rather hoped it would, in fact, provided only the
No. 4 of Old Central beat her man. He believed her capable of doing
it, unless her nerve faltered, which he deemed improbable. On her most
recent performances she was from two to four strokes lower than any one
but himself and Buddy Higman appreciated.

Important though the event was to Jeremy Robson, the authorities on The
Record considered it rather a waste of their brilliant youngster’s time.
However, they were appeased by the cropping out meantime of a story so
much in the Robson line that it might have been made to order for him.
Wackley, the managing editor, outlined it to him, when he arrived in the
morning.

“Robson, do you know a queer old bat up on Banks Street who runs a shoe
surgery?”

“Eli Wade? Yes; quite well.”

“He’s a nut of the old Know-Nothing kind, is n’t he? Hates all
foreigners and all that?”

“He’s a pretty hard-shelled Yankee.”

“Well; he’s done it this time. Made a fine young riot for himself last
night. It seems he’s been pasting cartoons and mottoes in his show
window; and some of the younger fellows from the Deutscher Club, who
pass there on their way home, naturally got sore. Last night with a few
beers aboard, they stopped and gave him a raree serenade. Out comes the
old boy in his nighty and makes ’em a red-hot speech. They give him
the whoop, and he begins to damn ’em all back to Germany.”

“Yes; he’s got fighting stuff in him,” agreed Jeremy.

“Too much for his own good. Somebody ups with a rock, and down comes the
big boot over the door. Well, the old boy goes dippy over that. Dives
inside and grabs up a hammer and right into them. First thing you know,
they have him on a rail--a scantling from that new building on the
corner--and are yelling for tar. It might have been serious for the old
boy, but just then along comes Andy Galpin of The Guardian. You know
him; he’s some young husky. Guard on the O. C. team for three years.
Well, he bucks the center and lays out a couple of the merry villagers
and there’s a pretty mix-up, and I understand Galpin got one in the
eye that did n’t improve his make-up. But the boys were sick of the fun
anyway, and they let Galpin get away with it and take old Wade home.
Instead of doing the sensible thing and sleeping it off, Wade gets all
het up, and swears out warrants and they’re going to thrash it out in
police court this noon, in time for the edition. Probably Wade ’ll make a
speech. Anyhow, there’ll be a circus when he goes on the stand. We want
a rattling good story on it; and put in your best touches on the old
boy. He’ll do for a local character to hang all sorts of stories on,
later.”

“But look here, Mr. Wackley: I know Eli Wade pretty well. He’s--he’s a
sort of friend of mine.”

“What if he is? You can have fun with him, can’t you? He won’t know
the difference. And if he does, he won’t care. Those fanatical guys are
crazy for publicity. He’ll eat it up.”

It was Jeremy’s settled intention, so he told himself, as he set out for
court, to write an account which, while lively, should fairly set forth
his friend’s side. When he saw Eli Wade at court his heart misgave him,
the Boot & Shoe Surgeon looked so whitely wrathful. The proceedings
dwindled into nothing. The “life” was out of the story, quite to one
reporter’s relief, when his evil genius inspired Eli Wade to address the
court. At the outset he was simple and dignified. But counsel for the
serenaders interpolated some well-timed taunts which roused him to
indignation. He had not slept that night, for shame of the treatment
to which he had been subjected; and his self-control was in abeyance.
Indignation, as he answered the taunts, waxed to fury. He burst into
a savage and absurd invective, aimed at “German interlopers,” “foreign
clubs that run our city,” and the like; his voice shrilling louder and
louder until he was drowned out by the uncontrollable laughter of the
court-room. It was all quite absurd and pitiable. Instinctively Jeremy’s
pencil took it down. Here was his story, ready to hand.

As he sat in the office, the grip of characterization settled upon him.
Oddments and gleams of past conversations in the “Infirmary” came back
to him, and he embodied them. Stroke by stroke there grew up under his
hand a portrait, crude from haste but vivid, telling, and a stimulant to
mirth, not always of the kindliest. It was not intentionally unfair; it
was never malicious in purpose. But it was the more deadly in effect. By
the magic transformation of print it made out of an unpolished, simple,
generous, fervent, and thoughtful artisan, a laughable homunculus. Yet
there was in it no element of “fake.” Jeremy could have defended it
at all points. Any newspaper judgment would have credited it with
due fidelity to facts. The sum-total was a subtle and gross
misrepresentation. Had the writer read it over he would perhaps have
seen this for himself. But there was no time. He barely caught the
edition. Wackley’s: “Great stuff, my boy! You’ll hear of this,” happily
distracted him from the stirrings of a conscience which faintly wished
to know how Eli Wade would take it.

“You’re doing golf to-morrow,” continued the managing editor. “Don’t
bother to come to the office first.” Profiting by this, Jeremy, an
hour before match time, called at Miss Pritchard’s for Marcia. He was
informed that she had left on an errand, but would meet him at the
Country Club. When, just before the first pair teed up, she appeared,
her mentor was startled, she looked so wan and languid.

“Good Heavens!” said Jeremy in a whisper. “You have n’t let this thing
get on your nerves?”

She shook her head. Her eyes did not avoid his now; but the changeful
lights seemed to have dwindled to the merest flicker in inscrutable
depths.

“Let me get you a cup of coffee. That’ll brace you up.”

“I shall be all right,” she said with an effort.

At the call for the fourth pair she stepped to the tee and hit a ball
straight down the center for 160-odd yards. It was the virtue of her
game that she was straight on the pin, nine shots out of ten, thereby
overcoming the handicap of greater distance sure to be against her
in college competition. Great and grinful was the satisfaction of her
trainer at observing the demeanor of her opponent. When he was presented
to her, that gentleman, a sightly and powerful youth notable for his
long drives, took one extended, admiring, and astounded survey of “M.
Ames”--he had n’t known what the bewildering fates held in store for him
inquired privately but passionately of high Heaven and his team-mates
how a fellow was going to keep his eye on the ball with a vision like
_that_ to look at, and entered upon a disastrous career by nearly
slaying, with his first drive, a squirrel in a tree a good hundred yards
off the course. He recovered in time to record an unparalleled ten for
the first hole. M. Ames, dead on the pin, scored a correct five. Everson
(the Kirk boy) contributed three putts on the second green, and M. Ames
won it in a sound four. But as his pupil took her stance for a brassie,
after a respectable tee-shot from the third, Jeremy perceived with
dismay that her hands were shaking. Up went her head, as she swung, and
the ball darted from the toe of her club into the rough. She was out in
three, but again she succumbed to star-gazing on her mashie shot, and
her opponent still triangulating the course like a care-free surveyor,
was able to halve it. From then on, Jeremy the mentor was in agony.
Except off the tees, where she clung to her beautiful, free-limbed,
lissome swing, as it were by instinct, No. 4 for Old Central topped,
sliced, pulled, and scarified the helpless turf. The gallant foeman was
so distressed at her obviously unusual ineptitudes, that his own game
went glimmering down the grassy bypaths that lead to traps and bunkers.
Only this involuntary gallantry saved M. Ames from practical extinction.
As it was, she was two down at the end of the first nine, with a dismal
fifty-four. As they left the ninth green she turned to Jeremy: “Would
you mind not caddying for me the rest of the match?”

“But Marcia!” he cried, aghast. “What’s wrong?”

“You have got on my nerves.”

“I have n’t said a word except to steady you.”

“I am sorry,” she said inflexibly.

An angry gleam flashed in Jeremy’s eyes. “Of course, if you feel that
way about it--”

“I do. I am sorry,” she repeated.

“Do you mind my following you?” he asked with semisardonic intent.

“I should rather you did not.”

“Well, good Heavens! Something has happened to spoil your nerve.”

“No.”

“Then what--”

“Come for me after the match. We can talk then.” With this Jeremy had to
be content. Relieved of his presence, M. Ames summoned all her force to
the rescue of her nerves, and astonished her opponent with a forty-four,
steadily and carefully played. The match, which had originally been
counted upon by a careful captain as a probable win for Old Central, was
a tie, under the scoring system agreed upon.

Dismal misgivings, meanwhile, had beset Jeremy Robson, the promising
young reporter of The Record. Already he was, in his heart, on the
defensive when, as he and Marcia turned out at the gate, she said:

“Did you write the article about Eli Wade?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it must have been yours,” said her lips. The tone said, “I
hoped it was not.”

“That’s a good sign, for people to recognize my style. What did you
think of it?”

“It was clever.”

There was no warmth in the tone. Rather a reluctant relinquishment of
disbelief.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“I did not like it. I hated it.”

“Oh, that’s the personal view,” he said indulgently. “Perhaps.”

“The Bellair Journal has offered me a job on the strength of it.”

“Were you obliged to take that--what is the term--that assignment?”

“A reporter takes what is handed out to him.”

“I suppose so. That would be the danger. I should fear that.”

“Fear what? I can’t imagine you fearing anything.”

“I should fear getting into that habit of mind. Complaisant. Servile.”

“That’s an ugly word, Marcia,” he said, flushing.

“I am sorry. Perhaps there is a side to it that I do not understand. But
surely, oh, surely, you need not have written it in that way!”

“My dear girl! Personal feeling has no relation to newspaper work. I
can’t juggle with facts because the man happens to be my friend. That is
n’t honest.”

“Is _this_ honest?” She held up the clipping which she took from her
pocket.

Jeremy quailed before the hurtness of her eyes, which was wonder more
than reproach.

“There is n’t a word in it,” he began, “that--”

“There is not a thought in it that is not a cruel injustice.”

“You’ve no right to say that.”

“That is true. You remind me.”

“Oh, Marcia,” he cried miserably. “Don’t take it that way. I’d have
thrown up my job sooner than write it if I’d known that you’d feel it
so.”

“It does not matter about me. But you! How could you have done it! How
could you have used his gentle, sweet, simple philosophy--his talks
between friends in the shop--to make a mock of him?”

“I did n’t. I swear I did n’t.”

She put the clipping into his hand. Re-read, now, the words were
self-damnatory. Jeremy groaned.

“It has hurt him so terribly,” she said.

“You’ve seen him?”

“Yes. He has resigned his place on the School Board. Mr. Dolge advised
him to get off before he was laughed off.”

Jeremy stared at the words of his facile portraiture as if they had
suddenly been informed with venom. “And he was so proud of it!” he
muttered.

“It was a large thing in his little life,” said the girl. “He feels
disgraced.”

Wackley’s easy and cynical assumption that the subject of the sketch
would be “crazy for publicity” recalled itself to Jeremy. He swore
beneath his breath. “When did you see Eli?

“This morning. At the hospital.”

“The hospital! Is he injured that badly?”

“No. You had not heard? It is Mr. Galpin, a friend of Eli’s--who stood
by him.”

“Andy Galpin! How bad is it?”

“Much worse than they supposed. He will be nearly blind in one eye.”

“Good Lord!”

“And is he a friend of yours, also; Mr. Galpin?”

“Andy? Yes; of course he is.”

“But you made no inquiry about him.”

“I did n’t know.”

Her eyes, steady and deep-lighted, still did not judge him, still
pathetically wondered at him.

“Marcia!” he broke out. “I haven’t been able to think of anything but
you. I have n’t had anything in my heart--”

“Please!”

He stopped, appealing to her with his look.

“I think you have to think of Eli Wade.”

Jeremy winced and was silent. Their car pulled up at the Pritchard gate.
She got out, but did not ask him to come in.

“The worst of it is that it’s hurt you,” he muttered. “I did n’t know
that you cared so much about him.”

“It was not he that I cared so much about,” returned Marcia steadily.
“It was you.”

She turned and passed into the house. Try as he might, on his way to the
hospital to see Andrew Galpin, Jeremy could derive from that low-toned
avowal neither hope nor comfort for a sick heart and a grilling
conscience.

The doctors would not let him see Galpin.

As by tradition bound, his “story” of the golf match focused on the one
and unique girl-player on the team. She was the “human interest”
 center. So skillfully did he skirt the edge of her bad play that only an
analysis of the score would apprise the reader of the partial failure.
Her good shots were described in glowing terms. To her, the casual
reader would have supposed, belonged the chief credit on Old Central’s
side; and the copy-reader, who was no golfer, in good faith headed it
“Miss Ames Gains Tie for O. C.”; the final team score having also been
all even, though it should have been Old Central’s victory had No. 4
played up to her standard. The writing of the article cheered up the
writer notably. Here was no wounding word or acid-bitten phrase. There
was only the clear purpose to please. Again Jeremy had been caught and
carried in the whirl of his semi-creative enthusiasm.

The quality was still there when he read it over on the following day.
Intent upon his sunshine-scattering he sent an early proof to “M. Ames.”
 He felt, on the whole, that he had been, if not unjustly, at least
untenderly treated. Overnight he had been able to persuade himself that
the Wade sketch represented a fine type of loyalty to profession rising
triumphant above personal feelings. All that was needed to reestablish
him firmly in the conviction of righteousness, was Marcia’s appreciation
of his golf-story. He went to the Pritchard house to receive it. Marcia
was not there. She had gone for a few days’ visit at the Magnus Laurens’
country place. Jeremy sent a hasty, reproachful and alarmed note after
her. Why had she left without a word? What did it all mean? When was she
coming back? When could he see her and explain? As a composition it was
distinctly below standard for the rising young star of The Record. But
at least it could boast the highly-prized quality of heart-interest.

Jeremy called again at the hospital to see Andrew Galpin. That battered
warrior received him with immitigable cheerfulness.

“Ay-ah,” he explained. “Something busted inside the eye. It ain’t as bad
as they thought. They’re going to save quite a glimmer of sight in it,
and ‘my right eye is a good little eye,”’ he chanted. “Back on the job
in a week or so.”

Jeremy, craving solace, asked whether his friend had seen the Eli Wade
story; then, remembering his disability, corrected himself hastily.

“Sure I saw it. Or had it seen for me. I made ’em read me both papers
from end to end. That was a crackajack story. You keep on like this,
young fellow, and Fenchester ’ll be too small to hold you.”

“I’m afraid it hurt Eli Wade’s feelings,” said the visitor hesitantly.
“Did he say anything to you about it?”

“Ay-ah. He spoke of it.”

“What did he say?”

“We-ell; he said--Sure you want to know?” Jeremy nodded. “He said, ‘I’d
never have believed it from the way he wears his shoes.’ Like the poor
old nut, ain’t it?”

“Andy, was the story so rotten?”

“I just told you it was a crackajack piece of work.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about my doing it at all.”

“It was your assignment, was n’t it?”

“Certainly, it was,” assented Jeremy, comforted and justified. “I had to
take it or quit my job, did n’t I?”

“Oh, I guess you’re stronger than that on The Record.”

“What would you have done in my place?”

“Me? Oh, I’m a reporter. I reckon I’d have done the story.” But there
was no conviction in Galpin’s tone. Jeremy wished he could have seen the
bandaged eyes. He mistrusted that they would have avoided his.

“That’s part of the business,” he declared, self-defensively.

“That’s the hell of the business,” said Andrew Galpin. Jeremy left the
hospital feeling that Marcia Ames and Andrew Galpin had said much the
same thing to him about his article, in widely different terms.

Marcia’s reply to his note came several days later. Its brevity did not
conceal an indefinable and disturbing reserve. She would see him, she
wrote, when she returned. With the note was inclosed the proof of the
golf report. Its margin carried a penciled note.

“Can you not see that this only makes it worse?” Jeremy read his
cherished report once more, and saw. It was a lie.




CHAPTER VII

LAKE SKOHOTA thrusts a long and slender arm past Fenchester to throw it
cherishingly about a tiny island, cut off from the University campus and
made part of it again by an arched bridge overhanging dappled waters.
Willows bending from the islet’s bank weave their thousand-fingered
enchantments above the dreaming shallows. The subtle spice of sedge
and marsh-bloom blows from it to disperse its spell upon the air that
whispers a never-finished tale of secrecy and sorcery to the trees. It
is a place of witchery.

The sheen of countless stars glowed above the bridge and wavered below
it, as two figures emerged from the pathway and paused at the summit
of the arch to lean and look down through the darkness at the blackly
opalescent gleam of the waters. A canoe stole around the bend and
slipped beneath them, the stroke of its paddles accentuated in cool,
delicious plashes of sound as it entered the arch.

“Another two,” said the soft and happy voice of a girl, rising to them;
and a boyish voice answered:

“The night is full of them.”

The canoe merged with the darkness. The two figures on the bridge,
silent, followed it with their blind speculations into an unknown world.
From far across the open spaces of the lake came the music of women’s
voices blended, which the night breeze hushed to hear; a modulation of
wistful, minor strains:

                   “In dreams she grows not older

                   The lands of Dream among,

                   Though all the world wax colder

                   Though all the songs be sung.”

The latter couplet was repeated, a haunting, yearning, falling melody,
that suddenly swelled and rose into the splendid, fulfilling major:

                   “In dreams doth he behold her

                   Still fair and kind and young.”

The taller figure on the bridge stirred from a dream. “That is your
song, Marcia.”

“Yes,” said the girl, a little away from him in the darkness. “I
arranged it for them, to be sung so; in parts.”

“You sang it the first day we really began to know each other.”

“Very long ago,” she assented, with her serene gravity. “Two months, is
it not?”

“Or years. Or centuries. It does n’t seem to matter.”

“I am glad they sang that to-night. For us,” she concluded, after the
briefest of pauses.

He put his hand over hers, which rested on the stone coping of the
bridge. She did not stir nor speak. But it was his hand, not hers, that
trembled. A heavy rowboat came lumbering down the reach, two students at
the oars.

“Politics for me,” said one confidently. “We’re going to run the country
from this end now. I’m for Mart Embree’s band-wagon.”

“Too dull,” said another. “Gimme a touch of Nuh York.”

“It’s a rough world for poor, lost lambs like us to be spilled into,
anyway,” boomed a resonant bass from the stern seat, and their laughter
died away around the bend of the island.

Marcia Ames freed her fingers from her companion’s clasp.

“Jem,” she said.

“I love you,” he said.

Her figure, dim-white in the darkness, neither withdrew from nor
swayed toward him. But he thought that he saw her head half turn with a
sorrowful intent.

“Jem,” she said again, “I came here to--”

“I love you, Marcia,” he repeated with a still insistence.

“Wait. I am going away.”

“When?”

“Very soon. This week. Perhaps sooner.”

“For how long?”

“Will you not understand, Jem? I am going away.” The quiet repetition
fell, chill and deadening, upon his heart.

“From me?”

“From everything here.”

“Why?”

“I must.”

“Then you don’t care!”

She was silent.

“You’re going back?” He made an obvious effort to gather his force for
the determinative word. “Abroad?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll follow you,” he declared grimly.

“Now you are angry with me, are you not?” She spoke with a sorrowful,
disappointed intonation.

“Have n’t I a right to be?”

“Have you?”

“Tell me, if you can, that you have n’t cared for me a bit; not at
any time. You see,” he added with conviction but without triumph, “you
can’t!”

“If I had ever cried--in my life--since I was a child--I think--I should
cry now,” she said, in little, uneven sections of speech.

“Marcia!” All the anger passed away from Jem, leaving him shaken. “Don’t
feel that way. What has happened? What have I done to change you toward
me?”

“I cannot tell you--more than I have told you.”

“Try,” he urged. “Let’s have it out!”

“I am not clever at explaining. Not--not such things as this. There is
something that rises up inside and--and forbids. Oh, Jem! You must know,
without my putting it into words.”

“It’s that cursed Wade story, of course. But that’s because you don’t
understand. Surely, between you and me a--a petty little matter such as
that--”

“Petty!”

“Why, Marcia, it’s just part of the day’s work. Ask any newspaper man.
Ask Andrew Galpin.”

“Who has perhaps half-spoiled his life by defending his friend.”

“That’s different--I’d have done that.”

“Would you?”

“Can’t you believe that of me, Marcia? Do you think I’m a coward?”

“Falsehood is always cowardly,” she said very low. “Perhaps I am
abnormal about it. I cannot help it. I was bred that way.”

“But try to be fair to me,” he pleaded.

“Fair to you? I was more than that. I could not believe that you had
written it. When I went into Eli Wade’s shop that morning there was a
strange, violent white-haired little man there with him--”

“Nick Milliken.”

“Yes. He said what--what you have said; that it was all part of the
day’s work; that you were no worse than any other reporter. He said that
you had boasted to him that nobody could control your pen.”

Jeremy groaned. “It’s true.”

“And then he laughed, and said things about you that I would not endure
to hear--as I told him.”

“You defended me against Milliken!”

“I tried to.”

“Can’t you defend me against yourself, Marcia?”

He could hear her long, slow-drawn breath before she answered. “I could
defend you against _yourself_, in my own heart. But I cannot defend the
ideal of you that I had built up, against what you have done to it.”

“Could n’t you have told me?”

“Told you what, Jem?”

“That I did represent an ideal to you..Think what it would have meant to
me to--to know that.”

Something told him that she was smiling in the darkness and that there
was pain and pity as well as a sweet mockery in the smile. “Could I tell
you that before you told me--what you have told me to-night?”

“That I love you? You can’t pretend that you did n’t know it. But I’d no
business to tell you then: I’ve no business to tell you now,” he added
gloomily. “What have I got to offer a girl like you!”

“That would not matter,” she answered him proudly. “It is the other that
matters.”

“Wade, again! I can’t see that it matters so much, even to him. How was
I to guess that it would hurt a simple-minded old dreamer of that sort?”

“Have you been to see him since?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The direct query had the stunning force of accusation. “You’re right,”
 he said dully. “I knew all the time it was a rotten thing to do, only
I would n’t face it. And I’ve kept away from the Boot & Shoe Infirmary
because I was afraid to go there. It’s curious,” he added, in a flat,
detached manner of speech, “how the little things of life--the things
you think are little--wreck the whole business for you, when it’s too
late to do anything.”

“Jem!” gasped the girl. “I cannot bear to hear you talk so. It--it is
unlike you. It hurts me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, dear, Heaven knows. I only want to get this
clear. You--you think I’m unfit to be--that I’m untrustworthy. Is that
it?”

“Am I being very cruel?” she whispered.

“You’ve answered. It’s the truth that’s cruel, not you.”

“I must trust. Absolutely. Or--there is nothing.”

“I see. When do you go?”

Of a sudden her strong young arms were about his shoulders; her hot,
sweet face was pressed against his. He felt the quick throbbing of the
vein in her temple, and was shaken to the foundations of his being with
the dear and bewildering shock of it.

“Oh, Jem!” Her whisper fluttered close to his ear. “Why do you _let_ me
go! Never let me go. It breaks my heart to go. To leave you. Never to
see you again. Why must I go!”

“You mustn’t. You shan’t. Marcia, darling! After this you can’t leave
me.”

He lifted her head to press his lips upon her eyes. They were hot
and dry. But when he sought her mouth, her quick hand interposed. As
abruptly as she had come into his arms she escaped their jealous clasp
and stood back from him.

“How could I!” she panted. “It was unfair of me. I never meant it.”

“You can’t tell me that--now,” he answered, with a new note of joy and
triumph.

“It was wrong--so wrong,” she mourned. “It did not mean what--what you
hoped. For I must go.”

“Go?” he repeated incredulously. “And not come back?”

“Oh, _want_ me to come back, Jem!” she pleaded. “Keep wanting me to
come back. If anything could ever bring me, that would. But it will not.
Nothing can. I know it. I am holding to a dream.”

“I’ve lost mine,” said Jem. “And everything in life with it--if you go,
now.”

“Forgive me. And believe that I never meant to hurt you. If I have, it
was my ignorance.”

“Ignorance? You? I wish I could see your face now, to see how wise it
is!”

“You are smiling at me again,” she said. “But I am not wise. I am very
foolish. And I am very young. Jem, do you know how old I am?”

“Sometimes I’ve thought you must be at least a hundred.”

“I am not eighteen yet, Jem. Indeed, I am not. I once told you that I
was old, as a child. So you must forgive me and believe me.”

“I’ll do anything but give you up.”

“That, too,” she said very low. She set her hand trustfully within his
arm. “Come. You must take me home.”

It was a silent walk; the girl full of musings; the man of a grim,
dogged determination. At the rose-bowered steps he took her hand.

“To-morrow,” he said. “I’ll be here directly I finish my work. No; I’ve
got one errand I must do first.”

“What is that?” she asked wanly.

“I’m going to see Eli Wade.”

“Yes. I am glad,” said she.

He stopped for a moment at the gate, hoping for another sight of her.
She had turned up the hall light and now stood in the doorway, beneath
the roses. Her face was inexpressibly wistful, inexpressibly lovely,
inexpressibly lonely. The subtle and changeful eyes stared widely into
the darkness. Suddenly she threw her arm across them with a desolate,
renunciatory gesture and turned away.

The shoes which Eli Wade had repaired for Jeremy Robson were
leaden-soled to carry home a leaden and foreboding heart, that night.

*****

With the new day came new courage to the lover. Marcia cared for him,
by her own tacit confession. After all, his fault had been a minor
one; there was sound defense for it: he could convince her of that, and
overbear her intention of leaving him. What he failed to perceive was
this: that the girl was concerned, not with a fault, but with a flaw
of character divined by her subtle and powerful intuition. But a world
without Marcia Ames was unthinkable to young Jeremy Robson, considering
the prospect calmly in the light of day; and being unthinkable, there
remained only to devise the best means of combating her illogical and
even--he would go thus far--unfair judgment of himself. Growing more
assured and comfortable in his mind, as the day wore on, he contrived to
finish up his work early, and left the office at a jubilant skip, intent
on getting to Montgomery Street with the least possible delay. He was
n’t even going by way of the Boot & Shoe Infirmary. Eli Wade could wait.

On the sidewalk he was accosted by young Burton Higman, who glanced
sidelong at him out of ashamed-looking, swollen eyes.

“Cut it short, Buddy,” said the hasting Jem.

“She’s gone,” said the small boy.

Jem stopped dead in his tracks. “Who’s gone?”

“Miss Marcy.”

“Where? When?” demanded Jem wildly.

“Chicago. Three-thirty-seven,” returned the precise Buddy.

A pall of dimness settled down over the glaring street; hot, stark,
sterile dimness through which the figures of trivial folk moved
lifelessly on futile errands.

“Did she leave any message?” inquired Jem, presently, in a voice which
would have been life-like from a phonograph.

“Told me to tell you.”

“Why did she go--so soon?” The query was put, not to young Mr. Higman
but to a blind and juggernaut providence.

It was young Mr. Higman, however, who responded. “Afraid,” he stated.

“Afraid? What of?”

“Herself. She told me so when she k-k-kissed me goodbye.” Buddy’s eyes
winked rapidly. “But she didn’t tell me to tell you that,” he reflected.

“Did she give you any other message?”

“Not exac’ly a message.”

“Go on! Out with it.”

“You need n’t _bite_ a feller,” expostulated young Mr. Higman. “She told
me if ever you got what you was after, to go to you an’ ast for a job,
when I needed it, for the sake of a mut--mut--some kind of friend.”

Jem registered a silent and pious vow. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Do I get the job?”

“If I can give it to you.”

“Say, Mr. Robson. I guess she meant you was that kind of friend. Are you
a friend of hern?”

Jem got it out at last: “Yes.”

Young Mr. Higman’s eyes became suddenly more strained and
ashamed-looking. “I’m goin’ to miss her somethin’ awful, Mr. Robson,” he
said. “Ain’t you?” But Mr. Robson had passed on. Buddy wondered whether
he had suffered a touch of the sun. He seemed uncertain in his walk.




CHAPTER VIII

IN the course of a long and varied life, Miss Editha Greer had been
consistently eccentric. In the close of it she was not less so. Witness
the following telegram received by her great-nephew, Jeremy Robson:

_Philadelphia, July 30, 1912_

_I am dead. Do not come to funeral. Letter follows._

_E. Greer._

To say that the recipient of this posthumous message was overcome with
grief, would be excessive. His feeling for his aged relative had been
one of mild and remote piety, relieved by an intermittent sense of
amusement, and impregnated with a vague dread of what she might do next.
No more next now for E. Greer. Jeremy was honestly sorry; not on his
own account, but for the old lady herself. She had so enjoyed life!
Doubtless she had relinquished it with courage; but, also, he felt
certain, with profound dissent from the verdict. But, having duly
dismissed him from consideration in her lifetime, what should she be
writing him about now that she was dead?

Like the telegram, the letter, when it arrived, proved to be an
anticipatory document. It dealt, in a frank and unflattering style,
with Jeremy’s expectations upon her property which, she observed
characteristically, was much less than most fools supposed.

_I have long considered you a bit of a ninny [continued this pleasing
document]. Nor have I valid cause to alter my opinion. But I recently
met at a country house a young woman who knows you. [Jeremy’s heart
performed a porpoise-roll within his breast.] She tells me that I am an
old fool. I interpret her expression and bearing, not her words, which
are that I do not understand you. Apparently she believes that she does.
If I left you all my money, she would perhaps marry you for it. On the
whole, however, I believe not. She has neglected much more brilliant
opportunities here. Moreover, when I put the question to her, she said
not. She added that I was impertinent, and that impertinence was no more
tolerable from the old to the young than from the young to the old. I
like your Miss Marcia Ames.

The point of importance is that she considers the modest, in fact I may
say nominal and complimentary, sum set apart for you in my will, quite
insufficient. We discussed it at length. She is possessed of a devil of
frankness. She maintains that I should leave you a modest competency.
She thinks that it might save your immortal soul, if I correctly
interpret her attitude. She thinks your immortal soul is worth saving.
She assumes that you have an immortal soul. She even appeared to think
that I have an immortal soul. Upon that moot point I shall be better
able to judge by the time this letter goes forward to you; but it is
improbable that I shall communicate any further or more authoritative
information.

She is a strange creature. You should have married her, though she is
far too old for you. A hundred years at least. I judge you might have
married her but lost your chance. [Here the reader groaned.] She might
have made a success of you. I gravely doubt whether my money can.

Do not hastily assume that the money is within your grasp. There is a
condition to be fulfilled. I believe that you will not fulfill it. She
believes that you will, even though she does not know what it is. Nor
shall you. Whether you receive a small pittance or a roundly comfortable
sum, depends now entirely upon yourself. I am still malicious enough--I
forget that I am now, as you read this, dead and safely buried--I was
still malicious enough to wish that I might see your struggles of mind
upon receiving this, the last communication wherewith you will ever be
troubled from

Your dutiful great-aunt,

E. Greer._

Perturbation over the prospect of comparative enrichment was quite
subordinated, as Jeremy read this curious epistle, to the turbulence
of emotion excited by the knowledge that Marcia had been interesting
herself so intimately in his affairs. So far, the joke turned against
Great-Aunt Greer. But she was more than avenged by the sting in her
surmise that Jem had forfeited his chance with Marcia. Where was Marcia?
If he got the money, or the assurance of it, why should he not set out
to find her, even though it took him across the world, and try once
more? Would she have the force to escape from him again? Was not her
flight the initial confession, upon which her queer relations with E.
Greer set the seal? Only as an afterthought came the consideration of
the condition upon which he was to secure the larger legacy. He could
not seem to get excited or disturbed over it. Nothing mattered much in
the bleak soul of Jeremy Robson but Marcia Ames. Great-Aunt Greer would
have been sorely disgusted! Or, perhaps she would n’t.

Three days thereafter a caller came to see Jeremy at The Record office.
His card indicated that he was Mr. Arthur Welton, representing the firm
of Hunt & Hunt, Attorneys, Philadelphia. His appearance indicated that
he was about Jeremy’s age. His bearing indicated that he was older than
Pharaoh’s uncle, and charged with world-destinies. Jeremy had a shrewd
guess that this was his first mission away from home.

Mr. Welton looked Jeremy over minutely and shook hands. The firm of Hunt
& Hunt, which he had the honor to represent, had charge of the affairs
of Miss Editha Greer, deceased, he informed Mr. Robson. Would Mr. Robson
kindly put on his coat?

“Do you want me to go out with you?” asked Jeremy.

“As you prefer.”

“What’s the matter with this? Nobody will interrupt us here.”

“Very well.” The age-old youth wrapped himself in an air of superior
expectancy.

“Go ahead,” said the reporter.

“The coat,” reminded Mr. Welton.

Jeremy was annoyed. “Why the devil should I put on a coat with the
mercury ramping around 90?”

“A mere formality,” murmured his visitor.

“Oh, very well!” growled Jeremy. He departed and presently returned,
fully and uncomfortably garmented.

Again Mr. Arthur Welton inspected him carefully. “You do not wear
mourning, I observe.”

“I do _not_.”

“Why not, may I ask?”

“Don’t believe in it. It’s a pagan custom and usually hypocritical.”

“I cannot agree with you,” retorted the other weightily. “On principle,
I cannot agree with you. In the present instance, would it be an
evidence of hypocrisy to have shown a formal mark of sorrow for the loss
of your great-aunt?”

“It would.”

“You felt, then, no affection or esteem for the late Miss Editha Greer?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“It is so much the business of my firm that I have traveled a thousand
miles to ascertain your attitude.”

“The condition!” cried Jeremy, aloud. “I beg your pardon,” he added. “If
you had told me that this was a legal cross-examination--”

“Not precisely that, Mr. Robson. I should have thought that you would
appreciate its purport,” returned the other in a tone of grave rebuke.

“I do.” There was a grim set to the other’s lips. “I know Aunt Edie well
enough to appreciate her practical jokes.”

“Really, Mr. Robson! I am bound to protest against the assumption that
our late client--”

“All right! All right! I withdraw it. Fire ahead.”

Mr. Arthur Weston looked delicately but impressively pained. “You felt
no affection or esteem for the deceased?” he inquired through pursed
lips.

“I liked the old lady, in a way,” confessed Jeremy reminiscently. “She
had such a cheery spice of the devil in her. And her tongue! And her
pen! Oh, Lord! What an editorial writer she’d have made, if she could
have kept out of jail.”

“I need hardly tell you, Mr. Robson, that she gravely disapproved of
your journalistic predilections.”

“Nobody need tell me after she got through. Nobody need tell anybody
anything that my Great-Aunt Greer had told ’em first.”

“In order that the record may be clear, let me put this to you. It is
admitted that you disapprove of symbolical mourning; that you do not
practice it. If you did practice it, would you have worn mourning for
the deceased Miss Greer?”

“If the dog had n’t stopped to scratch the flea would he have caught the
rabbit?” retorted the irreverent Mr. Robson.

“I must insist upon a reply.”

“No; I certainly shouldn’t. Why should I? I’m not grieving over Aunt
Edie’s death. She’s no real loss to me. Nor gain, either, now,” he added
with a rueful grin. “I’m not going to pretend. So, you see, there’s not
even a mitigating circumstance.”

“Mitigating circ--”

“Good legal phrase, is n’t it? Oh, I understand your errand perfectly.
Aunt Edie wrote me that there was a ‘condition’ to the legacy that I
would n’t fulfill. If you’d come out here and found me all swathed up in
black like a mummy, and with a funereal gulp in my voice when I spoke
of my dear old Auntie, and the general manners of an undertaker right
on the job, I expect it might have been worth twenty or twenty-five
thousand dollars to me. Even a mourning band on my coat and a few
appropriate sighs in the right place might have got me five or ten
thousand. Maybe if I’d stopped to figure it out, I’d have dressed the
part. A fellow will do a good deal for money. Then again, maybe I would
n’t.” The memory of Marcia’s frank and lustrous eyes checked him. Could
he have met their challenge, with the black badge of hypocrisy on him?
“No! I’m damned if I would!” he declared with profound sincerity. “So
there you have it. I know where I get off, and I don’t much care, to
tell the truth. I lose.”

The overweighted legal victim of responsibilities almost too heavy to be
borne, slowly and accurately gathered up his hat, his gloves, his cane,
his portfolio, and his eye-glasses in the absorbed manner of one taking
an inventory. He bowed a solemn and professional farewell to Mr. Robson.
At the door he paused. A gleam as of some faint, inward flickering of
the eternal human which must at times assert itself even through the
cerements of legal procedure, appeared upon his pink and careworn
features.

“No,” he pronounced profoundly. “You win.”




CHAPTER IX


WHAT ’s the matter with you, Robson?”

Young Jeremy Robson turned a lack-luster eye upon Wackley, his managing
editor. “Nothing,” he said listlessly.

“You’re not looking well.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said the reporter, dully wishing his solicitous
superior at the devil.

“Want a few days off to go fishin’?”

“No, thanks.”

“What do you want?” inquired Wackley, dreading to hear that a raise
of pay was the requisite. Cheered by the valuable reporter’s negative
declaration of content with his lot as it was, the editor continued: “A
sick owl is a merry wag to what you’ve been for the last ten days. All
the ginger has gone out of your stuff. Can’t you dig us up something
more as good as your Eli Wade story?”

In that moment Jeremy Robson savored the sensations of the
chicken-killing puppy when, awaking from blessedly forgetful reverie, it
finds the dismal and penal relic of its crime still fast about its neck.

“Look here,” pursued Wackley. “This is n’t going to do. You quit for the
day, and go home. To-morrow there’s going to be doings in the Senate.
Martin Embree is going to spring something. You cover it. We’ll want a
good story, if the stuff comes through. Beat it for home, now!”

Home? Young Jeremy Robson felt a loathly distaste for his quiet room up
off the campus. But so he felt a loathly distaste for the whole of that
hollow and lifeless shell about him, which had so lately been the world
of his crowded, vigorous interests. Man delighted him not; no, nor
woman, either; not even the pride of his work and his satisfaction in
having become something of a figure, though in a minor degree, locally.
He hungered, with the intensity of a self-willed and rather lonely
nature, for the sight and sound and essence of Marcia Ames who was some
weeks and Heaven only knew how many miles away from him. Young Jeremy
Robson had suffered as severe a hurt as youth can suffer and still
continue to be youth.

He wandered idly up the Nicklin Avenue hill and turned into the shaded
sweetness of Montgomery Street. Miss Letitia Pritchard was at her
hedge-row, cutting roses. She was a placid and vigorous mite of a woman,
unfaded at fifty, sweet and hardy and fresh-hued and rugged like a late,
frost-resisting apple.

“How hot and tired you look!” was her greeting across the barrier
of bloom and fragrance. “Come in and I’ll give you some iced
ginger-and-lemon.” She led the way to a dwarfish table in a fairy grotto
of rocks and climbing flowers. “Are you never coming to see me any
more?”

“I didn’t know you’d care to have me,” he replied, exactly like a
forlorn small boy.

“Your rival, Buddy Higman, comes every day. Though that’s partly
business. But he always starts in by asking, ‘Heard from Her, again,
Miss Letty?’”

Her visitor gave her a grateful look. “What do you hear, Miss
Pritchard?”

“My young and dangerous cousin is dashing about New York at a great
rate,” she informed him, “enjoying life to the utmost.”

“Then she has n’t sailed yet.”

“She sails in a fortnight.”

“Does she say anything about coming back?”

The rosy spinster shook her head. “Not a word. But then, Marcia does n’t
say things. She does ’em.”

“Do you think she will come back--some time?”

“Probably not. I think she will--well, do what is best for her. Without
being at all a selfish person, Marcia has a singular instinct for doing
what is best for herself. In the real sense, I mean.”

Undoubtedly! reflected young Mr. Jeremy Robson. She had done the best
thing for herself in judging him and finding him lacking. Acceptance of
which fact gave to his face an expression which caused Miss Pritchard
to look the other way. Presently she went to a shelf in the nook and
brought out an envelope which she placed in her caller’s hand.

“Are n’t they good!” said she.

He smoothed out the curving paper, and Marcia’s own face smiled forth
its quaint and inscrutable witchery at him.

“I took it the day before she went away. There’s one to spare,” she
suggested.

“Do you think she’d want me to have it?” he asked, his hungry gaze set
upon the little print.

“You’re a nice boy,” said Miss Letitia Pritchard. (“And all the nicer,”
 she thought to herself, “for being so much a boy.”) “Yes; she’d be glad
to have you have it, I think.”

“She did n’t say so?”

Sympathy for the eagerness of his tone softened the old maid’s smile.
“No. She did n’t say so. She did n’t say anything about you, except that
you’d come to see me. For a time I thought her prophecy was wrong.”

“I’d like to come again.”

“As often as you like,” she said kindly. “You’re one of three people
she talked to me about, the night before she left. The others were
Buddy--she is going to help him get an education when the time
comes--and Eli Wade.” From day to day Jeremy had postponed the dreaded
confessional visit to the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. “You’ve reminded me of an
errand, Miss Pritchard,” he said.

Bidding her good-bye, he went direct to the Infirmary. The old
practitioner sat hunched over a pair of white buckskins. He lifted a
mild, but questioning face to Jeremy.

“Come in, Mr. Robson,” said he. “It’s quite some time sence you was
here.”

“I was ashamed to come,” blurted Jeremy..

“Shucks! Don’t say that. You can’t be responsible for what they order
you to write. That’s a reporter’s job.”

“Who says so?”

“Nick Milliken. He says any reporter ’d have to do the same.”

This was a bitter flavoring to the dose. “That is n’t so,” replied
Jeremy quietly. “I need n’t have written it; not that way. I need n’t
have written it at all.”

The Boot & Shoe Surgeon set down the subject upon which he was
operating. “I don’t understand,” he said, puzzled and despondent. “Did
you want to do it?”

“That is n’t the question. I did n’t have to do it. If necessary I could
have resigned.”

The old man’s face cleared up. “Quit your job? That’d ’a’ been
foolish. There was n’t any call for you to do that.”

“Anyhow I’m mighty sorry I ever touched the story. And if I’d known what
it was going to do to you”--The old man flinched involuntarily at this
reference to the dead glories of his School Board incumbency--“I’d never
have touched it in the world.”

“Sure you would! You’d do it again. To-morrow if the orders came.”

Jem whirled to meet the malevolent smile of Nicholas Milliken, the
Socialist, standing in the doorway.

“I told you not to blame this young feller,” the newcomer bade Eli Wade.
“He can’t help it. He’s only a louse-souled ratchet in the machinery of
the capitalistic press.” Obviously much pleased with this rich metaphor,
Mr. Milliken entered and seated himself.

“Well, I knew he wouldn’t do it to me a-purpose,” said Eli Wade.

Jeremy Robson felt sick; too sick even to be incensed at Milliken who
proceeded:

“Did n’t even know the little game they were playing, did you,
young feller? Well, you see, Eli, here, he’s a radical as far as his
intelligence will carry him. That’s my influence on him. The bosses
don’t want radicals on the School Board. They don’t want ’em anywhere.
Anyhow the Schools belong to the Germans: that’s their specialty. So,
Eli being against the cultural-extension-of-German plan, they stir up
the Germans against him, and then sick the newspapers onto him, and when
they sick, _you_ do the yapping. That’s all there is to _that_. Except
that Smiling Mart, the damned hypocrite, steps up and eases Eli out
to help put in another German and clinch his hold on a few more German
votes. Not that it ain’t all right, at that; if they’ll put in a good
radical. The cultural extension’s good enough, like anything else
that’ll help people _think_. Oh, these fools! They can’t see education
is what’s going to dish ’em all and bring on the Social Revolution.”

“Don’t you talk against Martin Embree, Nick,” admonished the proprietor.
“There ain’t a straighter set pair o’ feet in the State of Centralia.”

“All right. Then I’m a goat; look at my hoofs!” grinned the Socialist.
“But be patient with our helpless young hired-man writer here.”

Jeremy liked Milliken’s contemptuous excusals less than Wade’s blame,
and said so.

“Oh, you ain’t reached the bottom of your ditch yet,” jeered the
Socialist. “How’s the editorial end? Still writing ’em?”

“Yes,” said Jeremy shortly.

“Pot of ink; pot o’ glue; pot o’ soft soap and a pair of blinders;
there’s your editorial-writer’s outfit. Done any slush-bucketing for
Montrose Clark yet?”

“No.”

“Say it as though you did n’t expect to. But you will. Oh, yes; you’ll
come to it.”

“Let him be, Nick,” said the gentle old philosopher of foot-garb.

“Did he let you be? Let him listen. One day old Judge Slippery Selden
Dana will come puttering into The Record office--”

“On the ball of his sole,” put in the Boot & Shoe Surgeon.

“Pussyfooting. _Of_ course. He’ll suggest to Mr. Farley; that some
recognition of Mr. Montrose Clark’s eminent services as a citizen would
be timely. Know what that means? Means that Puffy Clark and the P.-U.
Co. are getting ready to grab another franchise. Does Mr. Farley see
it that way? He does! He remembers a little slice of P.-U. stock in the
strong-box. And if Young Feller, here, is good enough with his pen, he
wins the job of puffery for the puffiest little public-utility-grafting
puff-adder that ever stung a city. And will _he_ see it that way? He
will. He’ll remember his little pay envelope at the end of the week, and
he’ll come through. It’s a grand little system.”

“Nothing wrong with a system that lets a man get from his employees what
he pays for,” defended Jeremy.

“Nothing wrong with your cutting Eli Wade’s throat to order, either.
Eh?”

To this Jeremy found no reply.

“Remember that apology I was going to make on demand? Do I hear any
demand? I guess the apology’s the other way around.”

“I’ve made it. Not to you, though. I’m going on. Eli! Once more I’m
sorry and I’m ashamed.”

“Until next time,” added the irrepressible malice of the white-haired
Socialist.

Not trusting himself to reply, the reporter walked out. Within a few
strides Milliken was at his side.

“He’s bad hurt, the old boy,” he confided in a wholly altered and wholly
sincere tone.

“I’m sorry--”

‘“Oh, your story is only part of it. Clever! Vur-ree clever. But they’d
have got his place on the Board anyway. They needed it.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. Unless,” added the other on reflection, “you could slip
something pleasant about him over some time. That’d please him. He’s
like a child, about print.”

At home Jem took out the picture of Marcia Ames and studied it. Tiny
though it was, it was instinct with her very poise and spiritual
effluence. As so often with herself, he felt the something unsaid behind
the serene self-possession of the face; the something vital for which he
must grope. What was the message, the demand which the face was making
upon him, which she was making upon him through this dear memento?
Ranging back, he recalled in a flash that first impression of her in the
meeting, while she was still so completely unknown that he had mistaken
even the fundamental matter of sex; the impression of an untouched,
untainted valorousness. Again he saw it, reflected from the tiny
delicacy of the picture. Plain enough now what she demanded of him.

It was courage.




CHAPTER X

THE Senate proceedings did not open until ten o’clock. Meantime
Montrose Clark, President of the Fenchester Public Utilities
Corporation, and in some part godling of local affairs, had telephoned
his commands to The Record that a representative be sent to his office
that morning to take a statement for the paper. Jeremy, incautiously
dropping in at the office early, got the job to do before going to
the Capitol. He was admitted to an outer office by the hand-perfected
private secretary, cross-questioned briefly, and passed in to the
Presence.

Mr. Montrose Clark was telephoning. He was revealed to Jeremy’s
inquiring eye as a plump, glossy, red-faced little man with a fussily
assured manner, an autocratic voice and a keen and greedy eye. Few
indeed were the local pies of promise or flavor in which Mr. Clark did
not have a pudgy and profit-taking finger; and his bearing suggested the
man comfortably sure of taking care of himself. He snapped “G’-bye” into
the telephone and turned to Jeremy.

“You’re the rippawtah from The Record?”

The accent of the word stirred Jeremy’s bile. He did not know that it
was merely a sub-conscious stock trick of Mr. Clark’s; that there were
certain words, such as “rippawtah,” “culchah,” “legislaychuh,” and the
like, whereby he asserted his superiority of intellectual status,
reverting to the comfortable speech of the Middle West for the
communication of other thoughts.

“I’m from The Record,” he said.

“Take this.” The public-utilitarian began to dictate....

“Got that? Be sure to be accurate. This is important.” To the reporter
it seemed neither important nor interesting. It was a statement
concerning a projected change, petty, administrative, and technical,
in the conduct of the trolley system. Had it been of the most vital
significance, the “rippawtah” would still have grilled at the impersonal
arrogance of the other’s attitude.

“Got that?” repeated Mr. Clark, after another passage. “Read it over.”

Jeremy laid down his pencil. “Don’t you think you’d better send for one
of your stenographers?”

“What for?” demanded the other. “A rippawtah ought to be able to take
dictation, if he’s competent.”

“A ‘rippawtah,’ as you call him, is accustomed to a certain degree of
courtesy.”

Mr. Montrose Clark pressed a button and his hand-perfected private
secretary popped in.

“Garson! Call The Record. Tell Farley to instruct his rippawtah to
follow directions and not be insolent.”

Red to his cheek-bones, Jeremy tore up the sheet of paper on which he
had been writing, dropped the pieces upon the immaculate rug of the
outraged Mr. Montrose Clark, and marched out. Straight to The Record
office he went and sought Wackley.

“You can have my job. I’m through.”

“What’s the matter?” asked the astonished and alarmed managing editor.

Jeremy told him. Wackley laughed. He had no intention of losing so
valuable a man as Robson.

“Between us, Montrose Clark is an ass,” he said. “Don’t let him bother
you. We’ll keep you away from his jobs after this. Anyway, we’re going
to work you into editorials and specials more, from now on. Trot along
now to the Capitol, and keep your eye on Mart Embree.” Anticipation was
in the air of the Senate Chamber when Jeremy arrived. Something
special was expected from Senator Embree. As always, when he was on the
programme, the galleries were full. There was reason and precedent for
this, for the two local newspapers were wont to report the leader of
the Northern Tier in a cautious, not to say niggardly manner. People
who wished to savor the full acidity of the young radical’s utterances,
would best get seats for themselves, or be dependent upon more provident
friends for word-of-mouth synopsis of the proceedings, since the
unfortunate instance of the famous “Piracy and the P.-U.” speech on
the Special Condemnation Bill, in which Senator Embree had held up that
civic godling, Mr. Montrose Clark, to the scorn and reprehension of
the impious rabble, and the local press had published the whole matter.
Politicians had confidently declared that the speech would terminate the
public life of Smiling Mart, who, by the way, had smiled only twice in
the whole course of his effort, once at the beginning and again at the
end. Montrose Clark, they said, would be too strong for him. It did not
so appear. When the tumult and the shouting had died and the captains
of industry and the kings of local politics had departed and laid their
plans for the elimination of the upstart, it transpired that the upstart
had by that one speech crystallized a somewhat indefinite policy of
progressive radicalism into a compaign for the rescue of the State from
the control of the financial and public utility magnates who had quietly
taken it over from an older and far more corrupt purely political
management. The man in the street rallied to Martin Embree, as well
where the street was a country town thoroughfare as where it was a
city’s artery of trade, and the farmers of the north followed almost
in a body and without much respect to party. These were unassimilated
Americans; Scandinavians, a few Dutch and Italians, but mostly
Germans. Martin Embree had the unbounded confidence of these elements,
particularly the Germans. He had cultivated it assiduously, and by
legitimate political methods. In and out of season he impressed them
with their responsibility for the cleansing of politics, and for reform.
Now, to your German-American, uplifted in the conviction of racial
righteousness, reform is a word sanctified for his own uses. Reform
means compelling other people to think as he thinks. Therefore he
solemnly adopts it. Reform, to these Northern Tier farmers, meant Martin
Embree. By this support alone, if he had enjoyed no other, he was too
strong for the powers that were completely to dislodge. He was clean,
honest, earnest, fervent, laborious, and the possessor of a direct
and winning address. Too late, the “old gang” perceived that he had
developed from a “cheap spellbinder” into a “dangerous demagogue”; and
largely because they had so ill-advisedly permitted such part of the
press as they controlled, to disseminate that telling speech of his. At
least, they would n’t make that mistake again! Martin Embree was now too
considerable a figure to be ignored in print. But no other man in the
public life of Centralia was so rigorously “edited.”

To-day, Jeremy Robson foresaw, his own job would be one of reporting
orally, rather than writing. This acting as political lookout he quite
enjoyed; it gave him a flattering sense of being on the inside of
things. Then, too, there was opportunity for finesse. If the speaker of
the day got upon slippery ground, Jeremy would have his chance to trip
him up editorially, perhaps. He knew that Embree would not resent this
in him. It was part of the game, in which they were, for the present,
opponents. The Senator’s good-humor and broad-minded acceptance of the
matter was one of the qualities which Jeremy most ardently admired in
him. And politically he was so right and decent and clear of vision!
What would not Jeremy have given for a chance as political expert on a
paper supporting Embree’s main policies, a progressive and independent
paper such as the Bellair Journal, for example! Perhaps that would come
in time; already The Journal had offered him a reporter’s job. Meanwhile
he must, in fairness, be loyal to his employers. Embree himself would
admit that. Any one would admit it, except a hare-brained Socialist like
Milliken. Jeremy clung to that justification of loyalty.

Routine business was still in progress on the floor when Galpin of The
Guardian came in and seated himself next to Jeremy. There was still a
patch over his left eye. His broad and bony face wore, an expression of
concerned expectation. .

“What’s Embree after this time?” Jeremy whispered to him.

“Us,” said Galpin.

“Editorial ‘we’? The Guardian? How?”

“Don’t know. Can’t pick up much. Martin don’t ever say much beforehand.
Pulls his gun and shoots.”

“And Lord help the bull’s-eye!”

“Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “I asked him this morning what’s what, and all
he said was; ‘Better get ready to duck in the Press Gallery,’ with
that smile of his that may mean fun and may mean murder. Look! There’s
Slippery Selden Dana on the floor.”

“That means the P.-U. is in it.”

“Not necessarily. But it means something out of the ordinary. He is n’t
spending Montrose Clark’s time on any picayune stuff.”

“You can’t blame Embree if he goes after the newspapers,” said The
Record reflectively.

“Fool trick, though. They always get in the last wallop.”

“Look what a raw deal he gets, here in Fenchester. The best he gets from
The Record is silent contempt, and The Guardian--well, I don’t know why
he has n’t sued The Guardian for libel long ago.”

“What’d be the use?”

“You mean The Guardian is right in practically saying he’s a crook?”

“No. I guess he’s the nearest decent thing we’ve got in this rotten
mess of politics,” said Galpin with the experienced political reporter’s
cynical view of public men, “unless it’s Magnus Laurens.”

“Then why won’t they give him a fair shake? I don’t mind their going
after him editorially. That’s opinion. But to cut him out of the news,
that gets my goat a little.”

“Ay-ah? Well, you see, he’s gumming our game.”

“What ga--”

“The whole, dam’, slick, polite graft that makes the machine run so
smooth and nice and turns out the pretty little dividends for the banks
and the railroads and the big companies generally. Haven’t you seen into
that millstone yet?”

“You talk as if you were really on Embree’s side.”

“Ay-ah. Why not?”

“But The Guard--”

“I’m a hired man,” said Galpin impassively.

“If you had a paper of your own--”

“Be a hired man just the same.”

“Who could boss you then?” asked Jeremy in surprise. “Same bunch that
bosses The Record and The Guardian.”

“Could n’t a paper be run independent of them?”

“Never has been in this town.”

“But could n’t it?” persisted the other. “Would n’t it be fun to work on
a paper like that!”

“Gee!” murmured Galpin. They were like two urchins savoring a golden and
imaginative treat.

“Mr. President.”

The resonant tones of Martin Embree’s rich and effortless voice roused
the reporters from their boyish vision. He stood tall, handsome, easy,
confident, but his usually sunny face was grave, and he held in his hand
a document, contrary to his custom. Before he had spoken five minutes to
the hushed attention of floor and galleries, it became evident that his
talk was centering and converging upon that document. His subject was
the “cheese check” scandal which had roused the dairy farmers of his
region to fury. He traced the steps whereby the commission men’s combine
had sought legislation which would have rendered the producer almost
helpless in their hands, touched upon alleged bribery in the lower
House, referred to the part which two of the Fenchester banking
institutions had played (“That’s why Dana was here; Montrose Clark’s in
the banking game on the side,” whispered Galpin), and continued:

“For my own conscientious and repeated attempts to block this nefarious
deal, I have been consistently derided as a silly reformer by one of
the local newspapers, and denounced by the other in terms which, were
circumstances otherwise, I should reply to by a suit for criminal libel.
I am enabled to deal with The Fenchester Guardian, in a more effective,
swifter, and more relevant manner. Will the clerk of the Senate kindly
read this letter, which fell into my hands by a happy accident, and the
authenticity of which will not be denied by its author?”

The clerk of the Senate received the document with a look of interest
unusual in his stolid official bearing. He began to read:

“Editor’s Office of The Fenchester Evening Guardian: Undated. My dear
Mr. Dorlon:--”

“The date is established as of last month by the envelope,” said Senator
Embree.

Profiting by the interruption, the clerk ran his eye swiftly through the
one-page letter; but, instead of resuming his reading, left his place
and carried it to the presiding officer. Their heads bent over it close
together. A whisper passed between them. Its sibilance, though not its
purport, could be heard through the silenced chamber. The clerk of the
Senate turned away, not toward his desk, but toward the curtained exit.

“Mr. Clerk!” Martin Embree’s voice was not raised by the iota of a tone;
yet it stopped the man in his tracks. “Not one step out of my sight with
that document.”

“The Senator will come to order. The Senator will address himself to the
chair,” rebuked the President.

Embree’s arm rose, rigid as iron, until his stiffened hand pointed with
all the menace of a weapon straight into the face of the discomposed
presiding officer.

“Mr. President, I hold you responsible for the safety and integrity of
that document. I ask you to direct the clerk to read it.”

“Read,” said the President after a moment of hesitation.

_“‘My dear Mr. Dorlon,’” repeated the clerk: “‘I have yours of the 19th
with directions for claiming the last payment from the Trust Co. Glad
you approve the paper’s course and are satisfied with what we have done
on the Cheese Commission Bill. Locker and Mayne are O.K. I turned over
their balance to them. We can whip Smith into line; Cary, Sellers, and
Gunderson, too, in time. In the Senate we owe a great deal to’” (the
clerk’s voice faltered) “‘Bellows’” (the clerk’s name was Bellows).
“‘Better look after him. Let me know when you come to the Capitol.

“‘Yours very truly, (Signed) A. M. Wymett.’”_

Dead silence followed, in which the footsteps of the messenger returning
the document to Senator Embree, sounded loud and hollow. Then a voice
(unidentified) pronounced from the gallery in accents of intensest
conviction: “Well, I _am_ damned!” Which inspired another voice (also
unidentified) to adjure solemnly, “Burn this letter.” The Senate found
relief in nervous, shrill, tittering laughter. “Will the papers print
_that?_” shouted somebody, and the presiding officer recovering,
hammered vehemently for order.

“Gentlemen,” concluded Martin Embree, the damnatory letter raised to the
level of his head, “I leave to this honorable body the determination
as between the Honorable A. M. Wymett, editor and proprietor of The
Fenchester Guardian, and myself.”

He sat down.

Jeremy turned to his fellow reporter, with questioning eyes.

“Knock-out,” said Galpin.

“Criminal charge, is n’t it?”

“Guess so. Anyhow, it’s good-bye Guardian. So far as Wymett’s concerned,
anyway. The crooked hound!”

“Did n’t you know he was doing their dirty work?”

“I knew he took orders. I didn’t know he took money. We all take orders.
You’ll take orders when you suppress this story.”

“Can it be suppressed?”

“It’s got to be. Honor of the profession and all that sort of thing.
Let’s get out. I want some air.”

Outside they walked along for a block, before either spoke. Jeremy said:
“Andy, how’s this going to affect you?”

“Don’t know. Shut up about it, can’t you! Talk about something else.”

“All right,” agreed the other cheerfully. “I’ll talk about myself. I’ve
got a chance to make a change. What do you think of editorial writing?”

“Nice, soft job. If you can do it. I could n’t.”

“I can.”

“Go to it, then. Only I would n’t stick to it.”

“Why not?”

Galpin rubbed his shaggy head. “Oh, I dunno. Too much preaching of the
other fellow’s doctrine, I guess.”

Jeremy’s mind reverted to Milliken’s view and he wondered how nearly the
two agreed. Certainly between preaching and the profession to which
the Socialist had bitterly likened editorializing, yawned the widest of
gulfs. He stated Milliken’s characterization.

“Rough stuff,” commented Galpin. “I guess there’s something in it,
though. Ay-ah. I get his point.”

“Then you would n’t take the job?”

“You might try it on for a while. But as a permanency--well, it seems to
me a fellow that’s settled down to write editorials for another man all
his life has sort of given up.”

“Given up? What?”

“Everything. He’s licked. Ay-ah. He’s a beaten man. He’s under contract
to think another man’s thoughts and make other folks think ’em if he
can.”

“Are n’t we doing that as reporters?”

“Not so much. Facts ain’t thoughts. You can report and keep your mind
independent. That’s why I climb off the desk whenever I can, like
to-day. Whew! I came near having Mr. Wymett go along with me. He was
held up at the last minute.”

Galpin turned into his office. Jeremy went to The Record to report to
Wackley and was turned over to Mr. Farley.

“Nothing about The Guardian can be published, of course,” prescribed
that diplomat, who had already been in communication with the local
leaders. “Give us half a column of the rest. And go light. It’s ticklish
ground.”

After finishing, Jeremy went out for a long and thoughtful walk. On
his return home he found a letter with the letterhead of Messrs. Hunt
& Hunt, Attorneys, of Philadelphia. The firm begged to inform him
that, with due allowance for taxes and fees, he was heir, under his
great-aunt’s will, to the sum of $86,730.18.




CHAPTER XI

AFTER listening to Andrew Galpin’s verbal report upon Senator Martin
Embree’s painful and convincing characterization of The Guardian’s
editorial page as for sale to the highest bidder, backed up by
discouraging details regarding himself, A. M. Wymett retired to his
house to commune with a bottle and a time-table of the trains to Canada.
As a man’s house is his castle and as castles are not connected with a
troublous and uncharitable world by wires of communication, he further
fortified his position by cutting off the telephone. He then profoundly
considered his prospects and as profoundly misliked them.

As befitted the owner of a pliable daily, Mr. Wymett was thoroughly
conversant with the law bearing upon publications. It seemed
unpleasantly probable to him that his ill-fated letter laid him open to
indictment on any one of three counts. That smiling Mart Embree would
push for criminal action, he had little doubt. The Guardian unhappily
had nothing on the Senator; he could n’t be blackmailed. If the
financial and political powers in control would stand by, The Guardian
could weather the storm, albeit severely battered in reputation. But
would they? Could they afford to in view of the definite nature of the
exposure? Mr. Wymett supped gloomily and alone with this question and
afterward took it into his study with him for the evening’s speculation.
His long, grave, immobile, ascetic face grew longer, graver, more
immobile, and more ascetic as the facts in their bearing upon him massed
a formidable array of cons against a scraggly and wavering handful of
pros.

Upon him thus absorbed, and steadily absorbing (for the bottle was still
his counselor), intruded young Robson of The Record.

“Nothing to say for publication,” snapped Wymett, professionally shocked
at the idea of his rival’s making capital of his misfortunes.

“We’re not printing anything,” pleasantly replied his visitor.

“What do you want, then?”

“Will you sell The Guardian?”

“To whom?”

“To me.”

Mr. Wymett leaned back from his desk and studied his caller from beneath
heavy eyelids. His posture lent to his face a furtively benevolent look
as of one meditating the performance of a good deed on the sly. Such was
not his precise intent, as regarded young Robson. He didn’t trust young
Robson. He did n’t trust The Record. For that matter he was not in a
mood to trust anybody or anything in a calumnious world. He opened
a small cabinet at his elbow which he had hastily closed upon young
Robson’s entrance.

“May I offer you a drink?” he said.

“No; thank you.”

“Good! Nothing mixes so badly with printer’s ink,” approved the older
man patronizingly. “I seldom touch it, otherwise than as a digestant.”
 He poured himself a liberal allowance and set the glass on his desk.
“Whom do you represent?”

“Myself.”

Mr. Wymett smiled tolerantly. “Of course. But whose capital?”

“My own.”

“A secret deal, eh? What reason have you to suppose that the paper is
for sale?”

“I was in the Senate.”

Thus unpleasantly recalled to his thorny situation, Mr. Wymett gulped
down his whiskey and hastily poured another.

“A bare-faced forgery,” he asserted with an effect of judicial severity;
“as will be proved at the proper time.”

“Let us assume it to be, for the sake of courtesy. It got a quick
endorsement,” replied young Robson smoothly.

Mr. Wymett hastily set down the re-filled glass which he was
voluptuously raising, and rather wished that he had n’t taken that other
one. Young Robson was not, perhaps, as young as his years.

“Endorsement?” he inquired.

“Locker and Mayne have skipped out. The forgery impressed them to that
extent.”

“Yellow,” commented the severe Mr. Wymett. His hand crept toward the
stimulant which possesses the mystic power of changing timorous yellow
into fighting red--up to a point--and was retracted again before
attaining the goal. The caller’s quick eye noted the movement. “They own
no part of The Guardian,” added its proprietor, “and their action has
nothing to do with the matter of its sale.”

“No,” commented young Robson in a tone disturbingly indeterminate
between confirmation and incredulity.

“I’ve been offered a hundred thousand for the paper,” remarked Mr.
Wymett casually.

“Coal-oil Johnny must have been out this way.”

“My dear young sir,” said Mr. Wymett in a tone intended to be crushing;
“I am talking business. May I trouble you to do the same?”

“Then The Guardian _is_ for sale.”

“Everything in this world is for sale, at its price,” returned the
editor-owner, thereby unconsciously voicing his philosophy of life.

“I assume that the price of The Guardian has not been increased by the
events of to-day.”

“Assume nothing of the sort.”

Young Mr. Robson leaned forward over the desk. “Shall I talk plain
talk?”

“If you please.”

“There’ll be an indictment if you stay here.”

“There will. For forgery. Against the author of that faked letter.”

“Against you. Nothing can stop it.”

“Did Embree promise you that?”

“There’s no question of promise. I don’t even get your idea.”

“Indeed! Suppose you give me credit for a gleam of intelligence. Nothing
more is required to see your game. Yours and Embree’s. He wants to
get his hands on a paper here. He fakes up this attack on me and The
Guardian to bulldoze me into selling the paper. You are his tool. The
pair of you think you can run me off my own property with an unloaded
gun. Not A. M. Wymett!”

“Very ingenious. But Senator Embree does n’t happen to enter into this
in any way, shape, or manner.”

“Then who is backing you? Is it Phipps and the brewery crowd? Or the
banking trust? I don’t suppose you’ve saved the money out of your
twenty-five a week from The Record.”

“That’s beside the question. The money is there. Seventy thousand
dollars flat.”

Into Mr. Wymett’s parched-looking eyes shot a swift gleam, only to be
as swiftly veiled. He lifted and slowly drank the liquor before him. He
shook his head.

“Not to be considered. Absurd.”

“It is what I figure The Guardian to be worth; to have been worth up to
two-fifteen this afternoon.”

“It is worth just as much now as it was yesterday.”

“Seventy thousand dollars,” pursued young Robson as if the other had not
spoken. “I’d like your answer.”

“Indeed! And when would you like it?”

The visitor glanced at the clock.

“Say, an hour.”

“Come, now! You are n’t so innocent of business as to suppose that deals
of this importance are put through on any such hair-trigger basis.”

“Not ordinarily. This is rather special, is n’t it?” insinuated the
other.

“Frankly, I don’t like your attitude, Mr. Robson.”

“Consider your own.” Jeremy’s eyes hardened. “You’re fiddling and
faddling within a step of the penitentiary. They’ll get you if you try
to hang to The Guardian. Public sentiment will demand it. Do you know
that the Bellair papers are carrying the story?”

“Damn ’em!” said Mr. Wymett and visited the decanter again.

“So, you see how far it’s gone. Now, if it is known that you’re out of
the paper, they’ll let up on you, won’t they? That looks to me like the
politics of it.”

“Probably,” agreed Mr. Wymett.

“Well, what do you say?”

“Let me talk to my lawyer.”

The Honorable Selden Dana was summoned, and came after a short delay,
in the course of which Mr. Wymett had two more whiskies to his own good
luck, for the price offered was better than he could have reasonably
hoped. On Judge Dana’s arrival he and Mr. Wymett retired for a
conference. It was brief. Three words comprised the lawyer’s advice:
“Sell and git!”

“You’ve bought, Mr. Robson,” he said, returning with his client for a
drink, and departed thoughtfully, leaving the old and the new owner of
The Guardian with duly signed preliminary agreements in their pockets.
Jeremy was to take over control the first of the succeeding month.

“So you won’t say where the money comes from?” said the now relaxed and
smiling Mr. Wymett.

“For publication?”

“Oh, no. To satisfy personal curiosity.”

“For that I would n’t. Public curiosity, though; that’s different. I
suppose people will be interested to know who’s back of the paper.”

“Certainly.”

“Then I’ll look to you to tell them. In to-morrow’s Guardian. These are
the facts, which you can verify by wire if you wish.” And he related to
the surprised Mr. Wymett the main circumstances of the Greer will. “When
that is published,” he concluded, “people will understand that it’s
my own money, that The Guardian is my own paper, and that there are no
strings on it or me.”

Mr. Wymett had another drink--“just one more”--to the success of The
Guardian under its new management, and became expansive for once in his
cautious life.

“You’ve bought into a sporting proposition, young man.” The retiring
editor rested his lined and puckered face on his hand, and regarded his
vis-à-vis thoughtfully. “A sporting proposition. Oh, God; I’m glad to be
out of it--and sorry! It’s a hell of a life, and I ‘ve loved it. But in
the end it gets you. Like a drug.”

He sat staring in a brief silence at the young, sanguine, keen face
before him; a sad, humorous-eyed, ageing, slovenly, dishonest, tolerant
philosopher.

“You’re young,” he broke forth. “Young enough, probably, to believe that
you can run a newspaper and still be--and still keep your ideals. Oh, I
had ’em, when I started in, just as you’ve got ’em. Of course you’ve
got ’em! They go with youth. Perhaps they’d stay with youth if youth
would stay with us. But you grow old so damnably fast in this game. Look
at me! Or perhaps you’d better _not_ look at me. You might see yourself
as you’ll be at my age.”

“Not me,” returned Jeremy Robson with unflattering conviction.

“Not? Well, perhaps not. I ‘m an old babbler. So you want Fenchester to
know that it’s your own money that’s behind the paper?”

“Yes; so they’ll understand that it’s a strictly one-man proposition.”

“And you think it’s going to be. Oh, well; for a little while, maybe.
Then--” His voice was as that of one who regretfully deprives a child of
a sweetmeat--“you’ll forego that happy and infantile dream. You’re
not going to run your newspaper just because you’ve bought it. The
politicians are going to run it for you. The banks are going to run it
for you. The railroads and trolley lines and water-power companies
and public-utility people are going to run it for you. And always the
advertisers--the advertisers--the advertisers. You ’re going to be
just a little, careful, polite Recording Secretary for them all. You ’ll
print what they tell you to and you ’ll kill what they forbid you
to print. Otherwise you can’t live. Don’t I know! I’ve tried it--both
ways.”

He dreamed with somnolent eyes back over the happy, troubled,
iniquitous, exciting years of The Guardian. “And so you think you’ll
change all that! Not much to be left of the old Guardian, eh? Perhaps
not even his figurehead, blowing his trumpet over the paper’s title. I
hope you’ll leave that, though. It’s been there a long time. Fifty-odd
years. Almost as long as I’ve lived. For old times’ sake I’d like to
see him stay, the old Guardian. We newspaper men are all sentimentalists
and conservatives at heart.”

“Not me,” denied Jeremy. “Not the conservative part, anyway. But I ‘ll
leave The Guardian his trumpet.”

“That trumpet! I was going to rock the walls of Jericho with it! They
still stand; you may have noticed that. There’s a lot of solidity
about our modern Jericho. As for us poor Joshuas of the newspapers, our
trumpet is n’t a trumpet any more. It’s the horn of a talking-machine.
We’re just damned phonographs playing the records that bigger men thrust
into our mechanical insides. Am I boring you?”

“Go on,” said Jeremy Robson. “I took a course in journalism at college.
There was nothing in it like this.”

“There would n’t be. _I’d_ like to lecture to ’em on the Voice of
the Press. The Voice from the Horn! Nickel-in-the-slot and you get your
tune. The politician drops his coin in and gets his favorite selection,
in consideration of a job on a board. The city authorities drop their
coin in--that’s the official printing--and you sing their little song.
The railroads drop in a few favors, passes and the like, and the horn
grinds out their pet record. And always the advertiser, big, small, and
medium; he owns your paper, news and editorials, and you’ll do as he
says or--where do you get off!

“And then there’s the silencers,” continued the remorseless lecturer.
“Don’t forget the silencers. The Dutch and the Swedes and the Norwegians
and the Irish, all with tender toes. The Jews and the Methodists and the
Catholics and the Lutherans, all touchy as wasps. You can’t afford to
play any tune they don’t like. And always there’s Deutschtum. Know what
‘Deutschtum’ is? No, you would n’t. Well, it means that German-Americans
are organized for German purposes all through the Middle West, and
nowhere more strongly than in this State. When Germany declares war on
Europe, which will be within ten years--yes, I’ve been grinned at before
by people who considered this just a crazy hobby of mine--all our Bunds
and Vereins and Gesellschafts are going to see to it that the United
States either stays out or goes in on the ‘right’ side. Why, they’re
making a Little Germany of us right here in this State and city by slow,
methodical, Teuton education, managed by our school boards which are run
by Germans, trained to it in the public schools--”

“That’s a thing I’d like to tackle,” said Robson thoughtfully.

“Hands off, young David! The Dutch Goliath is too big for your sling.
No, sir! Stand in with them. You’ll find them reasonable and easy enough
to deal with so long as you don’t interfere with their programme. Play
the German tune and they’ll play yours. Study ’em, flatter ’em a
little, and watch ’em. Theirs is the winning game.

“To trail along with the successful element,” continued the cynical
oracle: “That’s the great secret. It’s the only way for a newspaper.
There lies your profit.”

“In other words, selling out to the highest bidder,” translated his
disenchanted listener.

The volunteer professor of journalism took one more drink and gazed with
surprise and reproach at the empty bottle.

“Oh, I don’t say you’ll sell out, all at once. It’s a gradual process.
Step by step, finding a nice soft excuse to plant your foot on each
time, until you hit the bottom. Don’t I know! What you won’t do for
fear, you’ll do for friendship--and then for favor--and then for
preferment.” His voice dropped, and his eyes sought the empty liquor
glass. “And then--for cash.”

The younger man stirred, uneasy under that intimate and betraying
confidence.

“Oh, it’s a rotten game, and Lord! how I hate to be quitting it!”
 pursued the philosopher. “How I’d love to be you, just getting really
into it! Perhaps I’d do different. Make a better job of it. Keep to
my ideals. Perhaps not. Too heavy odds.” His eyes lifted again with a
bleary, dreamy wistfulness. “So you’re going to run an honest newspaper
in Fenchester, are you, son?”

The visitor rose. “You bet I am!” he said jubilantly. [_Often in the
vivid years to follow, the young owner of The Guardian had cause
to reflect that the shrewdest professional advice which he had
ever disregarded came from one who had just “stuck” him with an
all-but-ruinous bargain._]

Late as was the interview, he could n’t go to bed without telling Andrew
Galpin. Much depended on that astute youth. Jeremy routed him out of
bed, at his boarding-house.

“Come out and get a rarebit and a stein of beer, Andy.”

“Ay-a-a-ah!” yawned Galpin. “Watsamatter with you? What time is it?”

“Quarter to one.”

“You’re crazy, young fellow.”

“I’m worse than that. I’ve just bought The Guardian.”

“_What!_”

“That’s what.”

“Where’d you get the money?”

“Left to me.”

“How much did you pay?”

“Seventy thousand.”

“Seventy! You fat-wit!”

“What’s the matter with that?” asked Jeremy, crestfallen.

“Twenty thousand nice, fat, round, cool dollars is what’s the matter
with it. Why did n’t you tell me?”

“Did n’t have the time. I caught Wymett when he was scared.”

“He caught you when you were easy,” retorted Galpin in disgust. “How
did you happen to get stuck for seventy?”

Jeremy looked sulky. “I figured it out on a basis of advertising and
circulation.”

“Oh, hell! You poor innocent!” These unpalatable observations he left
his caller to digest while he retired to wash his face. In the act of
lacing up his left boot he remarked: “You could have got it for fifty.
Fifty-five at the outside.”

“It ought to make eight thousand a year.”

“On paper,” was Galpin’s laconic comment. He looked up from his right
boot. “Its advertising rate card is all bunk. Rotten with rebates.”

“Oh!” said Jeremy blankly. “Anyway, it can be made to make money,” he
added, recovering.

“Maybe. How much reserve have you got?”

“Oh, about fifteen thousand.”

“It’ll eat that in the first year,” observed Galpin, slipping into his
suspenders.

A dismayed silence fell between the friends. “Well, come on,” said
Jeremy finally.

“I’m afraid I’ll spoil your appetite.”

“You have n’t improved it,” admitted Jeremy. “So you think I’ve made a
fool of myself.”

“I think you’ve bought a dog, and an old dog.”

“It can be taught new tricks.”

“A yellow dog.”

“It hasn’t always been yellow. It needn’t keep on being.”

“I don’t think you’ll be comfortable in its hide.”

“Andy, I’d counted on you.”

Galpin stopped buttoning his waistcoat and looked up. “For what?”

“To help me make a real newspaper.”

“As how?”

“General manager.”

“Is that why you’re asking me out to beer up, young fellow?”

“Yes.”

Galpin removed his waistcoat and hung it neatly on a chair back. He
then proceeded to unlace his right boot. “What are you doing?” demanded
Jeremy.

“Going back to bed.”

“Not interested?”

“Worse than that. I’m excited.”

“Want time to--”

“Want nothin’!”

“Well, but--”

“No beer for me. No midnight racketings. I go on the water wagon right
here. Also the sleep wagon.” He folded his trousers lengthwise upon his
trunk, and reached for his pajamas. “I advise you the same,” he added.
“We’ve got a job, you and I, training a yellow dog to jump in and fight
for its life.”

“You’re on for the job, then, Andy?” cried Jeremy.

“Boss,” said Andrew Galpin, rolling over into his dishevelled bed,
“you’ve hired a hand.”


END OF PART I




PART II




CHAPTER I

MOTIVES not fully formulated had impelled Jeremy Robson to the purchase
of The Fenchester Guardian. Now that he was face to face with the
multiform problem of what he was to do with his new responsibility,
he sought to determine why he had possessed himself of it, hoping to
discover in that Why a clue to his future course.

Several figures at once stepped to the front of his mind and imperiously
claimed credit for inspiring his action. There was Montrose Clark who
had capped his impersonal insolences by the shibboleth, “rippawtah.”
 Nobody was ever going to give Jeremy Robson curt orders as a “rippawtah”
 again. (But he had the saving sense to grin at himself for the
triviality of it!) There was Andrew Galpin, who had said of the pleasant
pursuit of editorial writing that the practitioner of it “was licked--a
beaten man,” thus taking all the gloss from that phase. There was
Milliken, crude, coarse, malicious, with his inept but biting
epithets, and his blatant jibes at the necessities of hired-man (or
worse-than-hired-woman) journalism. There was Eli Wade, whom he had
written down to order--though herein Jeremy was still dallying with
self-delusions, since it was the lure of his own facile pen that had
betrayed him there--and to whom he owed a reparation which he could
perhaps now make. There was his old purpose of some day owning a paper;
quite a different paper, however, from the feeble and dubious Guardian.
More potent was the influence, never wholly abated, of that talk with
Senator Martin Embree wherein the shrewd judge of men and agencies had
suggested the power to be exerted for good by a fair-minded, independent
daily. But the real motivating power was Marcia Ames. Withdrawing
herself from him, she had left him a legacy of influence which was, at
the same time, a debt. He owed it to himself to prove to her that he
could be as honorable as she had deemed him dishonorable; as trustworthy
as she had deemed him unfit to be trusted; and he must do this through
this same medium of print whereby he had offended. Something dogged in
him prescribed that he should work out his salvation there on the spot.
She might never return to see it. She might never even know of it. But
it would be her work. By so much, at least, Jeremy would hold her. And
in doing what she would have him do, he would fill that bleak and arid
void, which, lacking hope, can be appeased only by activity.

It was no easy task which Jeremy Robson had set himself, that of making
his new property a vehicle for ideals. He was content that it should not
be easy. He craved hard, exacting, stimulant work. The Guardian offered
it in more generous measure than a better paper could have done. Jeremy
purposed to save The Guardian’s soul. Perhaps he had some underlying
notion that he might save his own, in the process.

That bad name which, given to a dog, is proverbially alleged to bring
down upon him a peculiarly un-canine fate at the hangman’s hands, had
long attached to The Fenchester Guardian. But the paper’s ill-repute was
no man’s gift. It had been justly earned. Once the stiffly high-minded
personal organ of a stilted and honorable old-school statesman, it had
fallen, under A. M. Wymett, to become a mongrel of journalism, a forlorn
and servile whiner, fawning for petty favors, kicked about by the
financial and political interests of the State, and not infrequently
ornamented with a tin can of scandal to its tail in the form of dirty
work performed for some temporary subsidizer in the background. Thanks
to shrewd legal advice and his own editorial adroitness, its guiding
spirit had contrived to escape the law, and, up to the episode of the
disastrously imprudent “cheese-check” letter, open and public contumely.
Further, he had, by dint of sheer ability of a low ethical order but
high technical grade, maintained a fair circulation for his paper.

Its only competitor in the bustling, growing State capital, with its
seventy thousand inhabitants, was The Record. There was no morning
newspaper. Several plans to start one had come to naught, because of
the secret opposition of the local leaders of politics and industry, who
were well content with the two mild and amenable specimens of journalism
already in the field. The Record represented stolid, stodgy, profitable,
and unprogressive respectability in a community now astir with new and
uneasy fermentations. The Guardian had always represented what it was
bidden to represent. What attitude it might adopt under the new control,
was a question not assumed to be troublesome by those whom a change
might conceivably trouble in no small degree. It was comfortably taken
for granted that The Guardian would “be good” when the time and test
came. For the corruptible to put on incorruptibility, in the newspaper
world, is a phenomenon so rare as to be practically negligible.

Soon or late these questions would come to an issue between the new
owner of The Guardian and those who had quietly controlled it for their
own ends. So much Jeremy Robson apprehended. What he had not foreseen
was a more immediate and imperative consideration. He had vaguely
believed that he was taking possession of a semipublic agency of
enlightenment. He found that he had bought a Struggle for Existence.
Quite a number of shrewd and active citizens whose existence had not
hitherto impressed him as important, loomed as figures and probably
antagonists in the struggle. Jeremy found himself in the way of learning
some new and important things about the newspaper business, with his
local advertisers in the pedagogic chair.

Newspapers do not live by the bread of circulation alone, but chiefly by
the strong and sustaining meat of advertising patronage. This important
fact had duly entered into Jeremy Robson’s calculations. On paper he had
figured a clear profit for The Guardian, before purchasing. After
taking over the property he found his estimates borne out by the formal
accounts. But he also found, to his discomfiture, that The Guardian’s
books had been kept by a sunny optimist with a taste for fiction. This
gentleman had plugged up the discrepancies in the papers finances with
ingenious figures, as a boat-jerry might doctor a leaky seam with putty
and paint--for sale only.

The book figures showed but one scale of advertising rates, with the
normal discounts to heavy users of space. While the new toy was still
agleam in the eyes of its proud possessor with all the glamour of
novelty, he began to discover that instead of a standard price to
advertisers.

The Guardian had more scales than even so fishy a proposition was
entitled to; that, in fact, A. M. Wymett had peddled about his precious
advertising space like a man with stolen diamonds to sell, and covered
the shady transactions by a system of ingenious and destructive rebates.
Thus, the columns which young Mr. Robson had confidingly calculated
at four to nine cents per line, were actually fetching from five cents
downward.

“That’s the first thing to be set right,” announced Jeremy after a
profoundly unsatisfactory study of his property’s earning capacity as
contrasted with its paper profits. “We’ll have a one-price-to-all system
hereafter.”

“Ay-ah,” drawled Andrew Galpin, to whom the decision was communicated.
“Your advertisers ’ll just love that!”

“They ought to be satisfied. It’s the only square way.”

“Oh, they’ll be satisfied if you put the scale low enough. But if you
put the scale low enough you’ll go broke.”

“Wymett did n’t go broke.”

“The Guardian had other sources of revenue under Wymett.”

“Such as the Cheese Bill fund?”

“Occasionally. Also the steady, reliable revenue from the advertising
matter that does n’t bear the a-d-v sign.”

“You mean store ‘readers’ and that sort of thing? I’m going to cut those
out.”

“Are, you? They’re semi-legitimate. Compared with some of the stuff
we’ve carried they’re so high-principled they’re almost holy.”

“Well, what, for instance?”

“Paid editorials. Paid political articles. Paid puffs and roasts.
Brewery checks. Railroad checks. P.-U. checks. Paving and other
contractors’ checks. You can read it all in the back files, if you’re
newspaper man enough to read between the lines.”

“I never saw any of that on The Record.”

“It ain’t there. The Record don’t do it that way; a little more decent.
The Record’s a kept-lady. We’re on the street--or were.”

“‘Were’ is right.” Jeremy ran his hands through his hair and regarded
his companion anxiously. “Andy?” he said.

“Ay-ah?”

“Were you--Did you--Never mind. It does n’t matter.”

“Ay-ah; it matters all right. You were going to ask me whether I had to
write any of that bought-and-paid-for stuff. And you were afraid to. Is
that right?”

Jeremy turned red.

“It’s right,” confirmed the other. “Well, I never did. I would n’t. I
gave ’em notice that I was fired the noon of the morning I got one of
those jobs. They were decent about it. But I had to do the next worse
thing. I had to let myself be called off a story so that some other guy
could write it, and write it crooked.”

“Have we had any--any offers since we took hold of the paper?”

“Give ’em time, Boss. It’s only a month, and in the slack period at
that. But I’ll tell you one thing. If you’re going to change the entire
advertising policy, you’ll have to change your advertising manager, for
Perley don’t know anything different from the news-selling and rebate
game.”

“Perley’s fired.”

“So far, so good. Who ’ve you got to take his place?”

“Nobody, yet. Could you manage it, Andy?”

“Temporarily, I might. But I’m going to have my hands too full re-making
the old sheet on the news side to give much time to advertising, in the
next year or so.”

“Temporarily will do. I’m going to get the principal merchants together
and talk it out with them. And I want to show ’em a change in the
advertising managership that’ll convince ’em the change of policy is
real.”

“Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “It sounds like the rumble of distant thunder
to me.”

“Not at all. All I want is a decent, living rate for the paper. Every
merchant expects a living profit on his merchandise. Why should n’t a
newspaper get the same?”

“Logical. Perfectly logical. But can you get ’em to see it that way?”
 Andrew Galpin paused and then delivered himself of a characteristic bit
of shrewdness. “The average storekeeper regards advertising outlay as
a sort of accepted blackmail which he pays under protest; he don’t know
exactly why, and he don’t know exactly for what. If you made him reason
it out, he’d probably say that he don’t believe it pays, but everybody
does it. Of course, he don’t know whether it pays or not. Nobody does,
really.”

“Then why does he do it?”

“Because his competitors do. He’s afraid not to. He has some dim sort
of fear that the papers will soak him if he don’t. That’s where the
blackmail comes in, if he had sense enough to figure it.”

“There won’t be any blackmail with us.”

“But the merchants won’t know it. They’ll advertise, and because they
advertise they’ll think they’re entitled to a say in the paper. They’ll
try to run it for you, too.”

“Will they?” muttered Jeremy in a tone which suggested that there might
be difficulties attending the fulfillment of the ambition.

“Ay-ah. In good faith, too. There’s something in their theory--I
guess--from their point of view.”

“Well, I’ll give them a chance to explain it,” said the new owner. “My
plan is to round ’em up at a lunch, and then have it out with ’em.
What do you think?”

“Fine! Feed ’em. Then kick ’em in the stomach.”

“No, sir! pat ’em on the back and talk reason to them. That’s where
_you_ come in. They know you’re a real newspaper man. They’ve got
to find it out yet, about me.” Out of thirty of the principal local
advertisers in The Guardian, twenty-one accepted Jeremy Robson’s
invitation to lunch with him at the Fenchester Club, with a “business
conference” to follow. Their attitude toward the gustatory part of the
proceedings was that of wary fish toward food which might conceal a
hook. Very nice luncheon, but--what was behind it? They had never had
confidence in The Guardian under A. M. Wymett. Why should they have more
in an unknown quantity like young Robson?

Sensing plainly this feeling, Jeremy perceived that here was the time
and place for finesse. Unfortunately he lacked that particular quality.
What was the next best thing to having it at call, he appreciated his
want of it, and instead of blundering strategically around the point he
went straight to it in the briefest of speeches.

“Gentlemen: I’ve brought you here to state the new policy of The
Guardian. The advertising rate will be that of the rate card. The same
system of discounts to all. No rebates. I’d be glad to hear your views.”

He sat down. A hum of surprise went about the table. Some one started
applause: the effort was abortive. It was no occasion for empty
courtesies. This was business!

“Talks straight,” remarked Betts, of Kelter & Betts, dry goods, in a
loud whisper, to his neighbor Arthur Turnbull, of the Emporium.

“Bluff,” opined Turnbull.

“Get up and call it,” suggested A. Friedland, proprietor of the Big Shop
who had overheard.

“Let Ellison do the talking,” returned Turnbull. “He’s president of our
association.”

Obedient to several suggestions, Matthew Ellison, head of Ellison
Brothers’ department store and president of the Retailers’ Association,
reared his ample form, and smiled his conscientious smile, from above
a graying chin whisker, upon the assembled feasters. In a long and
rambling talk which Andrew Galpin would have fairly slaughtered with
an editorial blue pencil, Mr. Ellison referred to Jeremy something more
than two dozen times as “our esteemed young friend” and at least a
dozen as “my dear young friend”; both of which were equally accurate and
sincere. The gist of his speech, so far as any one present could grasp
it, seemed to indicate a guarded agnosticism concerning the announced
policy of the paper. Upon the heels of the windy compliment with which
he closed, Adolph Ahrens, junior partner and advertising manager of the
Great Northwestern Stores, popped up. Mr. Ahrens was a young, blackish,
combative-jawed man with twitchy eyes.

“This don’t go,” he said belligerently. “I’ve got a letter in my files,
stipulating a rebate, that’s as good as a contract.”

“Signed by?” queried Jeremy suggestively.

“Signed by The Guardian, per A. M. Wymett.”

“So have I,” declared Turnbull, and was echoed by Lehn, of Stormont &
Lehn, Betts, and half a dozen more.

“It seems to have been a habit,” remarked Jeremy. “But, gentlemen, A.
M. Wymett is no longer The Guardian. His secret rebates do not bind us
indefinitely.”

“The courts ’ll have a word to say on that,” declared the combative
Ahrens.

“Easy, gentlemen! Let’s be friendly,” purred Matthew Ellison.

“We need n’t go to the courts,” put in Andrew Galpin. “In the cases
where rebates were offered, the rate will be raised to a point where it
covers the rebates.”

“Where do _you_ come in?” demanded Ahrens.

“As acting advertising manager of The Guardian.”

“What becomes of your ‘one-rate-for-all’ claim?” Turnbull turned upon
Jeremy.

“Discarded,” said the owner, promptly accepting Galpin’s strategy.

“Why ain’d I neffer gud any discound?” inquired Bernard Stockmuller, the
leading jeweler of the town, in a powerful and plaintive voice.

“Because you never had the sense to stick out for it, Barney,” retorted
Betts. “You were easy.”

“There you have the unfairness of the system,” Jeremy pointed out. “Mr.
Stockmuller is as frequent a user of space as some of you who have taken
rebates. Gentlemen, it does n’t go any more.”

“Well, this is a hell of a note!” murmured a discontented voice which
seemed to emanate from the depths of the abdominal curve of the senior
partner of Arndt & Niebuhr, furniture dealers.

“Did any of these private letters from Mr. Wymett mention reading
notices as an extra inducement?” asked the host of the occasion. .

“There was no need,” stated Ellison. “‘Readers’ are a recognized
courtesy to advertisers.”

“They take up space,” Jeremy pointed out. “They cost money, for ink,
paper, and setting up. From the newspaper’s viewpoint, they’re a dead
loss.”

“We pay for ’em in our advertising bills,” said Friedland, of the Big
Shop.

“Then you regard them as advertising?”

“Certainly.”

“But they don’t appear as advertising. They are in regular news type,
made up to look like news items, and they carry no a-d-v mark.”

Matthew Ellison took it upon his kindly self to enlighten this innocent
young adventurer in untried fields. “If they appeared as advertising,
the public would be less likely to read them.”

“Then they’re a fraud on the public.”

“Fraud? Oh, really, Mr. Robson,” deprecated the merchant. “A--a
harmless--er--subterfuge.”

“The Guardian cuts them out,” announced The Guardian’s revolutionary
proprietor. “No more ‘readers’ except with the a-d-v sign, and paid for
at full rates.”

“What are you trying to do--insult us?” growled the saturnine Mr.
Ahrens.

“You would have to be mighty thin-skinned to find an insult in that.”

“Well, drive us out of the paper, then?”

“That would be pretty foolish of me, would n’t it?”

“Would be? It _is_. First you violate an agreement--”

“To which I was not a party.”

“--and then you try to raise rates on us; and now you cut out the best
advertising the department store gets.”

“As for raising rates, I have n’t suggested it except as an offset to
rebates.”

“Comes to the same thing,” said several voices.

“Gentlemen,” said Jeremy with an accession of positiveness, “you’re
getting the best advertising rate in the State of Centralia to-day. With
practically ten thousand circulation--”

“Bunk!” interjected Turnbull.

“Upwards of nine thousand, seven hundred.”

“A good third of it pads and graft copies,” put in Betts.

For the first time Jeremy was at a disadvantage. He glanced quickly at
Galpin.

“Nothing of the sort,” declared that gentleman readily.

“How much is your list padded?” challenged Vogt the florist, in his
slightly thickened accent. “Come on, now! On the level.”

“Tell them, Mr. Galpin,” directed Jeremy. “Our cards are on the table.”

“I don’t know. But it’s padded all right,” confessed the general
manager. “Not a third. Not a quarter. But--well, enough.”

For the second time that day Jeremy Robson took a snap resolution.
“Appoint a committee to go over the books, Mr. Ellison,” said he. “Make
your estimate of _bona fide_ circulation, and I’ll adjust my rate to
make it as low per thousand as any daily in the State of equal size. Is
that fair?”

“Yes. I guess that’s fair enough,” answered the Retailers’ Association
president, hesitantly.

“That don’t satisfy me,” asserted Ahrens.

“What will, Mr. Ahrens?” asked Jeremy politely.

“‘Readers,’ like the Great Northwestern’s always had.”

“The next time I come to your store to buy a necktie, will you throw in
a box of collars?”

“It ain’t the same thing.”

“Pardon me; it’s precisely the same, considered as a deal. You don’t
give people more than they pay for. Why should you expect to get it? All
I ask for The Guardian is a living profit on the plant and product.”

“Wymett made a living out of it.”

“What Mr. Wymett did is not under discussion.”

“I’ll say this for it, though,” interjected Galpin. “We’re not going to
make the kind of living in the kind of way that Mr. Wymett made his. Get
that, you men?”

The stir that this roused was sufficient evidence of general knowledge
concerning The Guardian’s former management.

“Now, you’re talking!” said Betts.

“Dot’s goot. I like dot,” added Stockmuller.

It was the first evidence of approval that the new policy had elicited.

“So much having been said,” proceeded Jeremy: “I’ll tell you gentlemen
this. The Guardian is going to be run straight. If you ever see any
evidence that it is n’t, I want to know it.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Robson,” said Ellison warmly.

“That’s the kind of thing we want to hear. We’re all for that and will
wish you the success you deserve. And now there’s one more matter I
think ought to be taken up here. We considered it at the last meeting of
the association, and this is as good a time and place as any to thrash
it out. Speaking for myself and associates, Mr. Robson, we’d like to
know what consideration an advertiser in The Guardian may expect at its
hands.”

“Consideration?” Jeremy said, puzzled.

“In the matter of news.”

Another side-glance at Galpin apprised Jeremy that this was at least as
important as anything that had gone before.

“I’m afraid that I shall have to ask you to explain,” said Jeremy.

“I will give you an example: the case which we had up for discussion
at our last meeting. It concerns one of our members, Mr. Barclay, of
Barclay & Bull, shoe dealers. Barclay & Bull are liberal advertisers in
The Guardian, Mr. Robson.”

“Yes.”

“Last Tuesday The Guardian published a report of the Blair Street
Methodist Church meeting, which put Mr. Barclay in a quite unfortunate
light.”

“Was n’t our report accurate?”

“I am not saying whether it was accurate or inaccurate,” returned
Ellison conservatively. “The point is that it was unfortunate. It
subjected Mr. Barclay to criticism. How could Mr. Barclay foresee that
The Guardian, which his firm had always patronized, would catch up a
hasty and somewhat violent expression used in the heat of debate, and
publish it?”

“The meeting was a public meeting. Why should n’t we report it?”

“My dear young friend, I am endeavoring to tell you. Do you not owe
something to Mr. Barclay, as an advertiser?”

“Does Mr. Barclay owe anything to me because I buy my shoes at his
store?”

Mr. Ellison’s face shone with the prognostication of argumentative
triumph. “Pree-cisely the point! He does. He owes you courtesy as a
patron. You owe him courtesy as a patron. That article should, if I may
express an opinion, have omitted his name.”

“I see. Because Mr. Barclay is an advertiser in The Guardian.”

“Quite so,” beamed Ellison.

“But I’m selling Mr. Barclay advertising, not news.”

“The courtesy due to an--”

“Pardon me. It’s no question of courtesy. The Guardian sells its news to
its readers. It sells its advertising to its advertisers. You’ve got two
different things badly mixed.”

Mr. Ellison looked crestfallen, but rallied to another and more direct
argument. “Barclay & Bull intend withdrawing their advertising from The
Guardian.”

“That’s their affair,” said Jeremy shortly.

“But, surely, my dear young friend, it is equally the affair of your
paper.”

“If it’s a question of Barclay & Bull withdrawing their advertising
or The Guardian withdrawing its news policy, we’ll have to hump along
without the advertising.”

“Look here!” The twitchy eyes of Adolph Ahrens focused themselves
angrily on the host. “S’pose I go motoring up to Bellair. S’pose I get
pinched by a joy constable. S’pose I send around word I want it kept out
of the paper. Don’t I get a show?”

“Not a show,” declared Jeremy good-humoredly. “You’re too prominent a
character, Mr. Ahrens, not to make good reading.”

From the ventriloqual depths of Mr. Arndt there again emanated that
gentleman’s conviction concerning the infernal quality of the note of
Mr. Robson’s conversation.

Engel the grocer saw The Guardian’s finish, and made no secret of his
prophetic vision.

Aaron Levy, pursuing his trade under the ambitious title of “The
Fashion,” expressed the opinion that no man’s business was safe in a
town where such practices were permitted.

“Und you maig funny-nesses aboud the Chermans, too,” accused Bernard
Stockmuller, the jeweler, unexpectedly.

Vogt came to his support. “That reporter ought to be fired,” he
proclaimed. “The one that wrote the police court article about the
brewery driver.”

“‘Why, there was no malice in that,” defended Jeremy. “It was all
good-natured fun.”

“It wass fun at the Chermans,” declared Stockmuller. “Cherman accents.
Cherman ignorances. What you wan ta pigk on the Chermans for, always?”

“We don’t, Mr. Stockmuller. That’s absurd. We’d print an Irish dialect
story just as quickly. In fact we do, frequently.”

“You should understand,” said Blasius the hatter, heavily, “that we
Germans are as good citizens as anybody else.”

“Granted, but--”

“And priddy heavy advertisers in The Guardian.” This was Vogt’s
contribution.

Jeremy began to lose his temper. “Gentlemen,” said he sharply, “if you
take over the job of running The Guardian as you seem to wish to do,
where do I come in?”

“Easy! Friendly!” pacified Ellison. “No use in getting excited.”

“Thinks he can run the town,” growled Ahrens.

“There is much in Mr. Robson’s point of view,” continued the pourer of
oil. “And I am sure that he will concede the force of much that has been
said upon the other side. In any case I am sure we have all come to a
better understanding, and that we thank Mr. Robson most appreciatively
for his bounteous hospitality. And, now, gentlemen, I propose that
we--er--adjourn.”

Ahrens and two of the others forgot to bid Jeremy good-bye. When all had
left, the giver of the feast turned to his lieutenant.

“Well, they know where we stand. How many advertisers will it lose us?”

“I don’t know that it’ll lose us any, right away.”

“Ahrens, surely.”

“Don’t believe it. He’ll be afraid to drop out. He don’t understand your
go-to-hell attitude.”

“Was I as bad as that, Andy?”

“I’m taking his point of view. He don’t understand it, and probably he
don’t believe it. Thinks it’s bluff. But he’s scared and he’s cautious.
So he’ll stay in--for a while, anyway. What we’ve got to do in the long
run, is to keep ’em all scared.”

“Going in for blackmail, Andy?” smiled his boss.

“Keep ’em scared, by making the paper so strong that they dassent do
without it.”

“That means more circulation.”

“It means more circulation, a lot of it, and pretty darn quick. That’s
my job.”

Arrived at the office, Jeremy got his final glimpse of the day into the
ramifications of advertising. In his editorial sanctum waited a mild,
self-possessed, and profoundly laconic Chinaman.

“Take ad?” inquired he.

“Your ad? What is it?”

“Laundry.” He proffered a neat and competently prepared two-inch
single column “card,” announcing that Wong Kee stood ready to perform
high-class laundering for the discerning public at reasonable prices.

“All right. Take it to the Advertising window.”

“No good.”

“Why not?”

“Turn down.”

“Nonsense!”

“Chinese laundry. Turn down,” asseverated Wong Kee evenly.

“When did you try?”

“Nineteen-eight. Nineteen-nine. Nineteen-ten. Nineteen-eleven.”

“Every year? Nineteen-twelve wins.”

Jeremy marked “Must J. R.” on the copy and sent the satisfied Celestial
downstairs.

On the following morning, eight local professional apostles of
cleanliness, comprising the Laundry Association of Fenchester,
indignantly notified The Guardian of the withdrawal of their patronage.

“Even the laundrymen want to edit the paper for us,” the disgusted
Jeremy observed to Galpin. “Well, they can stay out till hell breaks
loose under the State of Centralia.”

As a matter of fact, that is exactly what they did.




CHAPTER II

NO advertising patronage was lost to The Guardian as the result of
the luncheon-conference. But Jeremy Robson’s offer to let a committee
investigate his circulation was costly. More than fifteen per cent
of The Guardian’s list proved either “phony” or dubious. Jeremy
reconstituted his rate card in accordance with the actual figures, and
cut recklessly into his free list. Appeased by this practical and to
them profitable concession, the Retailers’ Association abandoned
the issue of rebates. For the time, at least, they accepted the new
proprietor’s distasteful decision as to “readers.” The matter of
“courtesies” extended to advertisers was left in abeyance. That was sure
to come up in the inevitable course of events. The general status was
that of a truce, with one side wary and the other disgruntled.

Unsatisfactory though this might be to the mercantile element, it was
more so to the newspaper. For The Guardian simply could not make
a living at the reduced rates. There was but one thing to be done:
increase circulation, thereby giving the paper augmented advertising
value, and raise the advertising rates proportionately. It had been
agreed between the Retailers’ Association committee and Jeremy that
in view of his reduction of tariff, there would be no opposition to an
increase when the circulation should warrant it. Ellison and the
other committeemen did not believe that The Guardian could add to its
circulation materially. Jeremy and his general manager did. They did n’t
know just how. They only knew that it had to, or pass ignominiously out
of existence!

So they took the customary business-man’s gamble. In the hope of making
money they spent money. The paper began to swell out and look lively
and prosperous. But Jeremy’s bank account evidenced the ravages of a
galloping consumption. And though the public talked about The Guardian
and speculated interestedly upon its future, it did not fall over itself
to subscribe. It waited to see and be convinced. The public has that
habit.

Meanwhile two able gentlemen with no ostensible interest in journalism
were quietly watching and estimating the course of The Guardian.
President Montrose Clark, of the Fenchester Public Utilities
Corporation, and his legal aide-de-camp Judge Selden Dana, a pair
far more potent in Fenchester’s political affairs than Fenchester’s
undisceming citizenry ever dreamed, were concerned with the newspapers
as affecting their own plans, and were specially concerned with Jeremy
Robson’s newspaper because they possessed no reliable data on young Mr.
Robson.

“Do you know him?” asked Judge Dana.

“No,” replied Montrose Clark, whose interview with the “rippawtah” of
The Record had failed to leave any memory of the young man’s name.

“What do you think of The Guardian since he got it?”

“It’s silly,” pronounced Mr. Clark loftily.

“Silly? Would you call it silly?”

“I _have_ called it silly. It is beginning to show leanings toward a
half-baked radicalism.”

“Robson is very young.”

“Even socialistic tendencies,” pursued the other.

“Socialism is anything that holds up our programme,” grinned the lawyer,
who occasionally permitted himself the private luxury of frankness.

The public utilitarian frowned. “Have you been reading the articles on
tax-dodgers?”

“I have.”

“What is the purpose of them, if not to stir up socialistic unrest?”

“Sensation, I should say. The series has been popular. When Mr. Average
Citizen reads in his paper that he is being taxed twice as heavily as
Mr. Rich Man next door, he’s interested. He begins to think the paper is
a devil of a paper. He talks about it. That helps.”

“Suppose The Guardian should attack Us on the tax issue?”

“That also would be interesting,” remarked Dana. “But they won’t. Our
trail is too well covered. It would take them a year to get at the
facts.”

“But what’s the young fool driving at, anyway, Dana?” The lawyer rubbed
his long angular jaw, and the somnolent look of his eyes deepened
into musing. “I figure he’s making a bid for the radical support. The
radicals have never had a show here, and he may be able to rally them to
him.”

“What do they amount to, the radicals! A newspaper has got to have the
support of people with money.”

“That’s the accepted theory,” admitted the lawyer. “What do you know of
young Robson’s financial status!”

“Quite a bit. I handled the sale for Wymett.”

“Yes; yes. A good bargain for Wymett. Eh?”

“A stroke of fortune.”

“How much has Robson got behind him?”

“Not much. Twenty thousand. Perhaps twenty-five.”

Mr. Clark looked relieved. “I think we need have no misgivings.”

“I’m not so sure. A paper with radical leanings might find material in
that transfer ordinance of ours when it comes up again. Even some of our
good friends balk at that as pretty raw.”

“An essential step to our expansion, Dana,” said the public utilitarian
blandly.

“Exactly. But an uncharitable mind mightn’t see it that way. Which
reminds me: Embree is threatening a legislative investigation if the
ordinance goes through.”

“Local matters are no affair of Embree’s,” declared the other angrily.
“Fortunately he has no newspaper backing.”

“Has n’t he? I wish I were sure.”

“You don’t think that young Robson has sold out to Embree already?”

“No.”

“Very well, then--”

“Not sold out. It is n’t a question of cash. This boy is n’t A. M.
Wymett.”

“Nevertheless a newspaper is a business proposition,” opined Montrose
Clark dryly.

“It ought to be. Much simpler if it were. But this boy is a bit of
a sentimentalist. I’m afraid he’s in the way of being influenced by
Smiling Mart’s line of clap-trap.”

“Then we must act promptly.” The public utilitarian sat, thoughtful.
“We’ll start a campaign of public education on the transfer question,
through the newspapers,” he decided. “Including, of course, The
Guardian.”

“Straight-out, a-d-v kind of advertising?”

“Hardly. The usual thing. Well-prepared articles. Perhaps a careful
editorial or two. Do you think it too early?”

“Not too early. Too late for The Guardian. It won’t take ’em.”

“Oh, I think it will,” returned the other comfortably. “At our special
rate.”

“Not at any price, the editorials. The ‘readers,’ yes. But they’ll have
the ‘a-d-v’ sign at the bottom. Maybe the ‘P.-U.’ trade-mark also.”

Montrose Clark’s face puffed red. “Where do you get your information?”

“From inside,” answered Dana, whose special virtue and value was to be
“inside” on all available sources of information. “Those are the new
orders.”

“Robson’s?”

“I suppose so. Andrew Galpin may have a hand in it. He’s in general
charge.”

“I think I can persuade those young gentlemen,” remarked Montrose Clark
sardonically, “that it is not to their interest to impose troublesome
restrictions upon the corporation.”

He pressed a button. There arrived upon the scene, with an effect of
automatic response, that smooth, flawless, noiseless, expressionless
piece of human mechanism, Edward Garson, the hand-perfected private
secretary who, besides his immediate duties about the great man’s
person, acted as go-between in minor matters, press-agent, and
advertising manager for the Fenchester Public Utilities Corporation.
Concerning him, Judge Dana had once remarked that the queerest thing
about it was that it also had brains.

“Garson,” barked Montrose Clark, in the tone which he deemed
appropriate.

The hand-perfected secretary bowed.

“Bring in The Guardian advertising account.”

The secretary bowed again and disappeared. Almost immediately he was
back, bowing once more over a neatly typed single sheet of paper.

“What is our total expenditure in The Guardian for the current year, up
to date?”

“For display advertising, eleven hundred and forty-seven dollars, sixty
cents. For reading matter, two hundred and seventy-five.”

“That includes editorial matter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in The Record?”

“Seventeen hundred and twenty, sir. All display. They make no charge for
editorials or readers, you recall, sir.”

“True. We pay them a higher rate for display, and the editorial support
is--er--”

“By way of gratitude,” suggested Dana.

“Exactly. Do you think, Dana, that either paper is in a position to
discard the P.-U.’s support?”

“Just a moment,” said the lawyer. “That display advertising bill of The
Guardian’s; what was the bill as rendered?”

Looking to Montrose Clark for permission and receiving it in a nod, the
hand-perfected secretary replied, “Sixteen hundred dollars.”

“Scaled down to a net of about eleven hundred and fifty.”

“Yes. With discounts and rebates.”

“Wymett fooled Robson worse than I had supposed. The young fool bought
on the basis of the book rates. Discounts and rebates are going to be an
unpleasant surprise to him.”

“All of which will make him the easier to handle.”

“Maybe. With gloves.”

“It is not my habit,” said the local potentate austerely, “to concern
myself deeply with other people’s over-sensitiveness, when it is a
matter of business.”

“Go easy with him,” insisted the other. “He’s got a temper. There’s a
kind of a you-be-damned-ness about him. He’s a little puffed up with his
new sense of power, and we’ve got to allow for that.”

“Sense of power?” The magnate looked puzzled for the moment. “Oh, you
mean his paper!” He laughed. “All right, Dana. I’ll be tactful with him.
But of course I shan’t tolerate any nonsense.”

The retort, “I doubt if he will, either,” was on the tip of the lawyer’s
tongue. He suppressed it. It would only have irritated Montrose Clark’s
vanity which, under friction, was prone to develop prickly heat.

Let him find out for himself how to handle human nettles if he could n’t
take cannier men’s advice!




CHAPTER III

JUDGE DANA’S surmise as to Senator Embree and The Guardian partook
of the genius of prophecy. “Smiling Mart” had been waiting to assure
himself about the new control of the paper. Conviction grew within him
that Jeremy Robson was the man he was looking for: that the seed planted
with forethought in the mind of the unimportant Record reporter was
now bringing forth harvest in The Guardian. Embree decided upon open
measures.

Returning from a hasty luncheon one day, Jeremy found his den irradiated
by the famous Embree smile. He was glad to see it. At the points of
intersection where politics and newspaper work cross, he had encountered
the leader from the Northern Tier perhaps half a dozen times since their
first interview, and had liked him better each time, though their talks
had been on the professional and impersonal order. No conversation with
Martin Embree, however, was ever wholly impersonal. He was too intense
a humanist for that. As the Legislature had adjourned for the summer,
Jeremy was surprised to see Embree at the capital.

“Hello, Senator,” he said, shaking hands. “What brings you down here in
all this heat and dust?”

“You,” smiled his visitor.

“Well, I apologize. I did n’t do it purposely. But I’m glad to see you.”

“So here you are, a real newspaper owner. Congratulations, by the way.”
 Jeremy nodded. “Do you remember a little talk we had in my room, one
night?”

“Very well.”

“This is the next stage in the fairy-tale. Well, I talked pretty
openly that evening. As a rule I don’t give myself away in chance
conversation.”

Harking back, Jeremy failed to recall that the rising politician had
given himself away, in any sense. He leaned back in his chair and
waited.

“I’ve been watching your course with The Guardian,” continued the
Senator earnestly. “I wanted to see which way you were going. Now I
know.”

“What convinced you?”

“Your editorial on the tax-dodging railroads. That,” said Senator
Embree, his brilliant smile playing again, “was a soaker. A soaker! I
expect you heard from that.”

“I did.”

“Did they yelp?”

“They did.”

“Threaten?”

“What could they threaten?”

“That’s true; what could they?” repeated the other thoughtfully. “They
would n’t know where to have you. You’re an undetermined quantity to
them. And as such they don’t know your price. Have they tried to find it
out?”

“Not openly enough to be caught at it.”

“They’ve been trying to get at mine ever since I came to the Legislature
as a grass-green young kid of an Assemblyman. I guess they’ll find out
yours about the time they find out mine. And, for a further guess, the
two prices will be about the same. Eh?”

“That also is possible,” conceded the editor demurely.

“The Record did n’t spoil you. I was afraid it might. They’re so slick
and respectable over there! But as soon as you began to get your muscle
into The Guardian’s editorials, I saw which side you were on. And the
tax attack settled it in my mind that you’re for the public and against
the corporation grafters.”

“I’m against the corporations when they don’t play fair.”

“That’s good enough for me! They never do play fair. Not in politics.”

“I don’t go that far,” said Jeremy.

“You will,” smiled the other. “Give you time. You’ll come to it. You’re
with us and you’re going to be with us stronger and stronger.”

“It depends on who ‘us’ is, and what policies are involved,” replied the
editor, not wholly pleased at being thus confidently catalogued.

“The radicals. The clean, common voters who believe that the people
should run their own government for themselves.”

“So far, all right. I’m for that.”

“I knew you were. And here I am.” The smile now fairly surcharged the
little office.

“And here you are. What can I do for you, Senator?”

“Wrong, my boy! Wrong for once. It’s the other way around.”

“What can you do for me, then?”

The smile was replaced by a look of candor and earnestness. “Mr. Robson,
you’ve got to increase the sale of this paper, have n’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I can boost the circulation of The Guardian a thousand copies. Perhaps
fifteen hundred.”

“Will you take the job of circulation manager?” asked Jeremy, smiling.

“That’s another point. I’ll come to that later. Now, there’s no bluff
about this, Robson. I’m in dead earnest.”

“If you can tell me how to put on circulation without its costing all
I’ve got--”

“It’ll cost you nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Then it will be different from any circulation scheme I’ve heard of
yet.”

“Listen. Up in the Northern Tier I’m strong. They know me. They believe
in me. If I pass the word that The Guardian is my organ--”

“The Guardian is nobody’s organ.”

“I understand. The mouthpiece of our policies, I should have said.
The policies and principles you and I stand for, reform and
anti-dollar-domination. If I pass that word about The Guardian they’ll
take it like the Bible.”

“There might be something in that,” conceded the editor, who knew the
almost idolatrous quality of Embree’s following in his own district.

“Make no mistake about it. It’ll mean four or five hundred copies in my
own town, and it ought to run to a thousand more in the county outside.”

“That won’t help much in getting local advertising, here in Fenchester.”

“No. But it will help out your foreign advertising.”

“How do you know so much about the newspaper game?” asked the editor,
struck by the other’s use of the technical term. “Ever been in it?”

“I study everything that has a bearing on politics in this State. I
could pretty nearly tell you how much The Guardian stands to lose this
year.”

“Don’t!” said Jeremy, with a wry face.

“Unless you can raise your rates. And I’m showing you the way. Right
here in Fenchester, as soon as the common people are satisfied that you
really represent their interests, subscriptions will flood you.”

Suspicion of the phrase beset Jeremy. “I’m not going in for any
demagogue, yellow journal stuff.”

“Nobody wants you to. Just a decent, clean, fair-minded, progressive
radicalism. If I can stand up in my next campaign and say honestly that
there is a newspaper at the State capital, in the stronghold of old-line
politics and graft, that represents what I stand for, that newspaper is
going to boom. And I’m ready to do it.”

“On what terms?”

“None.”

“Just out of regard for my fascinating personality?” Martin Embree’s
smile appeared again, conciliatory, persuasive, earnest. “Let’s
understand each other, Robson. I’m convinced that you’re on the level.
That’s the first point. I’m convinced that you’re honestly a radical,
even if you’re a mild one. That’s the Second. Barring differences on
minor policies which are bound to arise between independent-minded
men, you and I stand for the same principles. You know my motivating
ambition?”

“The governorship,” replied Jeremy innocently.

A furrow of annoyance appeared between the lofty brows of the Senator.
“The ambition of my life,” he said emphatically, “is to serve the people
of this State by delivering our government out of the clutches of the
corporations. To that end I will accept any office, high or low, within
the gift of the voters.”

Oratorical as was the delivery, there was a certain ring of enthusiasm
which went far to convince the editor. In the years to come, of constant
alliance with Martin Embree, Robson satisfied himself of the man’s
essential devotion to the cause which he had made his own, a devotion
second only to the monstrous egotism which subordinated all causes
and all principles to his own rodent ambition, or, rather, merged and
absorbed them in that ambition.

“Of course; of course,” apologized the editor. “But you _do_ want to be
Governor, don’t you?”

“I’m going to be Governor,” was the positive response. “Not all their
money can stop me. This campaign of mine for reelection to the Senate is
really a preliminary skirmish for the bigger thing. I could be reelected
without lifting a finger, so far as that goes. But I want to hammer home
the State issues. And if you and I hammer at the same time, it is n’t
going to do either of us a bit of harm! By the way, you ought to have
agents on the ground to boost your circulation in the places where I
campaign. Who’s your circulation manager?”

“A routine scrub. No good. I’m shipping him. Do you happen to know of
any one?”

“Yes. I’ve got the very man for you, if he’ll come. Max Verrall, a live
wire on The Forreston Tribune. He’s a youngster, but a hustler. I think
I can get him for you.”

“I’ll take him on your say-so.”

“Now, let me give you a pointer or two on getting hold of the country
districts. We’re streaky on nationalities out through this State.
There’s a point to play for. Get after their feelings for the home
country with a tactful editorial or a bit of translated matter now and
then if you can lay your hands on it. Tickle their little vanities.
That’s what I do on my speaking tours. If it’s a Swedish community, I
tell ’em the Scandahoovians are the backbone of the Middle West. In
a German district--and the State is thick with ’em--I boost German
efficiency, the system to which the rest of the world goes to school.”

“Speaking of Germans _and_ schools,” remarked Robson; “I’m told that
they don’t even teach in English in some of the country districts.
I’ve been thinking of starting a campaign on that, one of these days.
Americanization--that ought to be a good slogan.”

“Off it, my boy!” said the Senator emphatically. “Hara-kiri is cheaper.
Nobody is so touchy as your German-American on the subject of language
and race. Don’t butt into a stone wall.”

“Wymett had a pet theory that Germany is getting ready for a world-war
and the German-Americans are already at their propaganda to influence
this country.”

“Bosh! I never could quite make out whether Wymett was more crazy than
crooked, or _vice versa_.”

“Just the same, I’ve noticed that quite a little reprint stuff boosting
Germany drifts into this office. Anecdotes about the Kaiser and that
sort of thing.”

“Print ’em! Print ’em all. It’ll make the paper solid just where you
most need support.”

“So I do, some of ’em, on their merits. It’s good stuff when fillers
are needed. Only, when the propaganda side is too plain, I can it.”

“Get your mind off this propaganda notion,” pleaded his adviser. “The
Germans are the best element of our citizenship to-day, and any man or
institution that goes up against them is _through_. Some lunatics are
trying to make a political issue of it. Magnus Laurens is. And they’re
talking of running him for Governor next time, because they think
they’ll need a respectable figurehead rather than one of the old,
discredited gang to beat me with. Lord! I’d ask nothing better than to
have Laurens against me, with his crank Know-Nothing conservatism that
he calls Americanism.”

“I liked Mr. Laurens,” said Jeremy.

“You won’t when you’ve fought him as long as I have. Speaking of
Germans, do you know Emil Bausch?”

“Only by sight.”

“He’s president of the Fenchester Deutscher Club and a mighty good
friend of mine. He wants to get in touch with you.”

“He called once, but I was out.”

“Bausch is a little ponderous at first, but he’s all right when you
get used to his ways. And he’s a power among the Germans. Don’t forget
that.”

“Between you and Wymett and Eli Wade I’m not likely to forget the
Germans,” laughed Jeremy.

“Wade? Poor chap. That was an unfortunate thing, that row of his. Well,
he’s good on the feet, but weak in the head. Do you know Milliken, his
crony?”

“Yes. He has n’t much use for you.”

“So he tells me every time he sees me. He considers me a slinker because
he says I’m a Socialist at heart, but my heart is weak. Socialism is all
right in its way. It’s a good vaccination, but a bad disease. Milliken’s
working in your shop now, is n’t he?”

“Is he? I did n’t know it.”

“Stick to me and you’ll learn a lot of things,” smiled the politician.
“Yes; he’s assistant to Big Girdner in the press-room. There’s another
German for you, Girdner, and a good one. Well, I’ll tell Emil Bausch to
come in again to see you.” At the door he paused. “By the way, are you
likely to be interested personally in politics?”

“Office for myself? No. I’ve got my hands full now.”

“Later, perhaps. Well, if you should want anything for any of your
friends, let me know. Perhaps I could manage it.”

“Could you? Locally?”

“I have a little influence locally, as a member of the Cities
Improvement Committee.”

“We were speaking of Eli Wade a moment ago,” said Jeremy. “Something
I wrote in The Record helped to get him out of a job he was very proud
of.”

“The Public Schools Board? Yes: I know.”

“It was tough on the old boy. I’d like to make that up to him. Do you
think you could get him put back?”

“Hardly that. You see, he got the Germans stirred up. He was out of
place on the Board, anyway. Education is the special political bent of
the German-Americans, you know. No; I’m afraid he’s finished there. But
I might look around and see if there is n’t something else that would
be just as good for him. It’s just the little honor of having an office
that flatters his type of mind.”

“I’d be mightily obliged if you could,” said Jeremy. Martin Embree
lost no time on the Bausch matter. On the morrow of his interview with
Jeremy, there stalked into the editorial den of The Guardian, a tall,
plethoric form buttoned within the frock coat and wearing the silk hat
of high ceremony. The form introduced itself with a pronounced guttural
accent as President Bausch, of the Deutscher Club, removed the hat,
unbuttoned the coat, took from the breast-pocket thereof a document
formidable with seals and tape, dandled the precious thing reverently in
its hands, and addressed the editor with solemnity.

“I have here somedthing of grade importance for your paper.”

“Take a seat,” offered the editor.

The document-bearer complied. “Id is a ledder from Prindz Henry to the
Cherman Singing Societies of America.”

“The original?” asked Jeremy, regarding the waxed and tapered curio with
interest.

“Certainly not! The orichinal is mounted and framed in New York. This is
the official copy.”

“It certainly looks official.”

“Id iss to be printed on Ventzday.”

“You mean that it is released for Wednesday.”

“Id iss to be printed on Ventzday,” reiterated the solemn emissary. “It
should appear on your frondt page.”

Had Mr. Bausch but known it, this landed him full upon the editor’s
pet toe: a toe, moreover, by this time angrily sore from over-frequent
treadings. It was no time to be telling the new proprietor and editor of
that free and untrammeled organ, The Guardian, what to and what not to
print, or where to locate it.

“It will if it’s worth it.” stated that gentleman briefly.

“Wordth? Id iss _most_ important,” his visitor assured him. “I have also
here the material from which could be derifed a valuable editorial--”

“I can’t really see that such a letter, even though it be news, is a
subject for editorial comment in The Guardian,” said Jeremy impatiently.

“Do you understand _whoo_ this ledder iss from?” cried the other.
“Prindz Henry! Our Kaiser’s brother. And you tell me--”

“Whose Kaiser’s brother? Not mine.”

An incredulous and pious shock passed over the face of Mr. Emil Bausch.
“Not yours! What matters you? The Kaiser of all goodt Chermans.” He
contemplated the young man with gloomy severity. “If id was the Prindz
of Vales I will bet you prindt it.”

Unversed in the carefully inbred German hatred and jealousy of all
things British, Jeremy was mildly puzzled.

“Why so?” he asked.

“I bet you are a Inklish-lover. I bet you are a Cherman-hater. You would
prindt the Prindz of Vales ledder. Hein?”

“Just as much or as little as I shall print of this.”

“As liddle? You will edit _this_; Prindz Henry’s own words?”

“If there’s too much of it.”

Dumbfounded at the proposed sacrilege, Mr. Bausch retrieved the precious
roll and held it ready to thrust back into the pocket of the frock coat.
“All or nothing,” he said.

“Nothing, then.”

“I will rebort this at the next meeting of the Deutscher Club,” growled
the departing Teuton.

“Send us a copy of the minutes,” retorted the exasperated Jem. “Perhaps
we’ll give you an editorial on those.”

He finished his writing and leaned back to meditate upon the possible
results of this encounter when a well-remembered voice in the hall
spoke his name, in a tone of business-like inquiry, to the youth on duty
there.

“Come right in, Buddy,” called Jeremy.

Buddy Higman entered. He was dressed with extreme correctness, even to
the extent of a whole and intact pair of suspenders, and his Sunday
coat which he carried genteelly over his arm. Jeremy pointed an accusing
finger at him.

“I know what you’ve come here for.”

“Gee!” murmured Buddy, impressed.

“You’ve come to tell me how to run my paper.”

“Me?” said Buddy.

“Or to order something put in.”

“What--”

“Or kept out.”

“No, sir,” said the astounded Buddy.

“What!! Don’t you know how to run my paper better than I do?”

“N-n-no, sir.”

“Then you’re unique in this town. Come to my arms. I mean, sit down.
What’s that you’re trying to get out of your pocket?”

“A--a--a letter, sir.”

“Hah! I knew it. From the Kaiser!”

“No, sir. I don’t know him,” said Buddy nervously. “What are you
calling me ‘sir’ for?” demanded Jeremy, suspicious at this unaccustomed
courtesy.

“I want a job.”

“Oh, you want a job! Here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you good for in a newspaper office?”

“Nothin’.”

“That’s a fine recommendation. Do you expect to get the job on the
strength of it?”

“Yes, sir. No, sir. On this.”

After much painful struggling the urchin succeeded in extracting from
his pocket a note which he placed in Jeremy’s hands. At sight of it,
all residue of raillery died out of the editor’s face. Though he had
but once seen Marcia’s writing, he knew, at the first glance, the bold,
frank, delicate, upright characters for hers. The note was undated. He
read, with a feeling that the world had changed and sweetened about him,
her words.

_Dear Jem:

If you ever can, give Buddy a chance; some work that will not interfere
with his schooling. I wish you two to look after each other.

And, oh, my dear, do please not quite altogether forget

Marcia_

Jeremy sat in a long silence. The boy did not disturb it. Finally the
young man looked up.

“When did she give you this, Buddy?”

“Before she went away.”

“All right. You get the job.”

“Thanks. I knew I would,” said the urchin confidently. “I c’n start in
to-morrow.” He watched, sympathetically, the other fold the note and
bestow it in his pocket.

“Mr. Robson,” he said. “She said a queer thing when she gimme the
letter.”

“What was that?”

“She said--you know how her eyes get solemn and big and--and kinda light
up, deep inside, when she means a thing _hard_--she said, ‘Buddy, I
shall like to think that you and he are looking after each other.’ What
did she mean by that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think it over.”

“Well, I been thinkin’ it over an’ I don’t get it.” He paused. Then
with the self-centered simplicity of boyhood, “Mr. Robson, I miss her
somethin’ fierce. You don’t know how I miss her.”

“Don’t I!” retorted Jeremy involuntarily, with a stab of pain.

“Nobody could,” stated the other with conviction.

So Jeremy and Buddy Higman became fellow-workers. Buddy’s job was
decidedly indeterminate. It did n’t matter. In taking him on Jeremy was
performing his first definite service to Marcia.

A week later his second was completed. Eli Wade was appointed a member
of the Library Board. The Guardian chronicled the appointment more
conspicuously than its unimportance as news warranted. Jeremy hoped that
in some manner Marcia would see or hear of it.




CHAPTER IV


MARTIN EMBREE more than fulfilled his word.

As if a royal patent had been issued in favor of The Guardian, the
Senator’s zealous partisans of the Northern Tier bestowed upon it their
patronage. Max Verrall, who revealed himself as a brisk and unfettered
spirit with political ambitions and a slavish fervency for Embree, did
the actual work of establishing the circulation in the district, and did
it so well that Jeremy Robson had no misgivings in turning over to him
the circulation managership of the paper.

In Fenchester the paper held about even for a time. The new features
which Galpin had put on gained readers, though not as fast as he had
hoped. To offset this, there had been some loss among the more rabid
element of the Deutscher Club, Bausch having spread the report that
the new ownership was anti-German. On his next visit to Fenchester,
to deliver the formal address at a school dedication, Senator Embree
reproached Jeremy for his tactlessness in handling the Prince Henry
message.

“Don’t stick your fighting-jaw out at me, young Robson,” he added
cheerily. “Keep that for your enemies. Now you put in a nice,
good-tempered philosophic little editorial paragraph on the ‘entente
cordiale’ line.” Jeremy began. “I’m da------”

“No, you’re not,” broke in the other. “Listen. Here’s the idea.” And he
outlined an editorial so tactful, so deft, so diplomatic whilst
still independently American in tone, that for sheer pleasure in good
workmanship the editor agreed to adopt it.

“And I’ll square it with Bausch,” said Embree. His smile expanded and
enfolded the other. “Better come hear me speak to-night. I ‘ll have
something to say about The Guardian. Watch the effect of the spread of
the gospel for the next few days.”

The one brief reference to the paper in Senator Embree’s address said
little but implied much. Jeremy was inclined to be disappointed. He
looked for no results. But the following day brought in thirty-seven new
subscriptions, with others trailing in their wake at the rate of a dozen
per day. Furthermore, a batch of letters to the editor urged upon him a
more definite political stand, or invited (in one instance challenged)
him to state his attitude regarding Embree and the new policies frankly.
Since his taking over the paper, politics had been at slack tide in the
State. Jeremy had wisely refrained from committing himself definitely.
All his instinct was for independence of thought and speech. When the
issues were cast, The Guardian would take its stand. But he had reckoned
without that pervasive and acute political self-consciousness of the
Middle West which expects every citizen to be definitely one thing or
the other, and be it promptly! His tax editorials, he found, had already
committed him in the general mind to the radical side. Whoever attacked
the railroads was a Friend of the People. To be sure, Jeremy’s attack
had been addressed to a few specific and flagrant instances; but the
public does not discriminate finely. And Senator Embree’s word-of-mouth
“gospel” had already premised for The Guardian a course which would
considerably have surprised its proprietor.

That keen-scented legal prowler, Judge Selden Dana, became uneasy. Young
Robson, he feared, was getting deep into “Smiling Mart’s” toils.

“It’s time we took a hand,” he warned Montrose Clark. “Don’t you think
I’d better see Robson and have a talk with him?”

“I will do it myself,” said the public utilitarian. “I have had more
experience than you in handling newspaper men.”

“All right. But--easy does it. Remember, this is no A. M. Wymett.”

“If it were, I should leave it entirely in your hands,” retorted the
magnate.

Judge Dana left, reflecting pungently upon his employer’s capacity for
unnecessarily disagreeable speeches.

“If he tries that on Robson he’ll get bumped, or I miss my guess,” he
surmised, and found some satisfaction in the thought.

Nothing, however, could have been farther from the mind of President
Clark. He purposed treating the young newspaper man kindly. Firmly, but
kindly. Even benevolently. Point out to him the error he was committing:
show him that he was unwittingly an enemy to civic interests and
progress which could best be left to those equipped by experience
and under Providence, for handling large affairs: indicate to him,
delicately, wherein his own interests and those of his newspaper were
consonant with the interests of such public benefactors as Montrose
Clark and the P.-U. That was the way to handle a presumably reasonable
young fellow with a property to consider! In his satisfied mind, the
public utilitarian outlined the course of the conversation, with himself
(naturally) as converser and his visitor contributing the antiphony of
grateful assent. Summoning the hand-perfected private secretary, Mr.
Clark entrusted to his reverent care a summons for Mr. Jeremy Robson.

The message was duly transferred to the ’phone. It found the editor
imparting some instructions to his new office boy and loyal personal
heeler, Burton Higman. At the call which informed him that the
Fenchester P.-U. Corporation office was on the ’phone, Jeremy’s mind
reverted to the interview of some months before when Mr. Montrose
Clark had issued his god-like directions to the fuming but helpless
“rippawtah” from The Record, and an unholy light shone in his eye.

“What is it?” he asked.

“This is Mr. Garson, Mr. Montrose Clark’s private secretary.”

“Go ahead.”

“Mr. Clark wishes to see you.”

“What about?”

“Is that necessary?” queried the voice, in a tone of startled rebuke.

“It’s usual.”

“He will doubtless explain, himself,” said the voice, after a pause.

“All right,” said Jeremy.

“Three o’clock this afternoon,” specified the great man’s mouthpiece,
and shut off.

Such was the Montrose Clark method with inferiors. Time and the wish
were stated. The place was assumed. A newspaper man was a natural
inferior according to the Montrose Clark measure. The weak point of the
theory, in this instance, was that the other party to the transaction
had not subscribed to it. He returned to his writing. At three-ten the
hand-perfected private secretary was on the ’phone again.

“Mr. Garson speaking. Mr. Clark is waiting.”

“So am I.”

“I don’t understand.” The tone was incredulous. “Put Mr. Clark on the
‘phone,” suggested the editor. “He may be quicker of comprehension.”

The suggestion was not adopted. But in fifteen minutes the secretary,
one button of his black cutaway flagrantly unbuttoned, was being
admitted to the den by Buddy Higman.

“This is most extraordinary, Mr. Robson,” he protested.

“What’s extraordinary in it? Mr. Clark wants to see me on business, I
assume?”

“He does.”

“This is my place of business.”

“This is--you--you are going out of your way to be offensive,” accused
the scandalized visitor.

“Not going out of my way at all. I’m sitting tight. You might have
noticed that yourself.”

“Mr. Clark--that is to say, the Public Utilities Corporation has been a
good friend to The Guardian.”

“It’s been reciprocated in the past,” returned Jeremy dryly.

“In the past? Am I to understand that the attitude of The Guardian
toward the Corporation has changed?”

“If Mr. Wymett was accustomed to run around whenever Mr. Clark chose to
push a button, it has. Them good old days,” said Jeremy enjoyably, “is
gone forever.”

“Mr. Wymett returned courtesy for courtesies.”

“So shall I. When I receive the courtesies.”

“The advertising patronage--”

“Don’t talk to me about advertising,” broke in the editor. “The few
dollars that your concern pays into our cash drawer don’t entitle Mr.
Clark to regard this paper as his errand boy.”

Mr. Garson’s sensitive ear fixed upon the word “few.”

“We are n’t doing much advertising anywhere just now,” he explained with
a conciliating purr. “There will be more soon. Quite soon, in fact. But
there were other ways, you understand, in which Mr. Clark’s friendship
was useful to The Guardian--to Mr. Wymett.”

“For example?”

“News items. Inside information. Advance information, I may say, on
the stock market, for instance, amounting to really advantageous
opportunities.”

“I see!”

“Such information is still--er--available.”

“I see, again. Would Mr. Clark confirm the proposition, do you think?”

The hand-perfected private secretary beamed. His mission, self-inspired,
was prospering famously. “Undoubtedly,” he averred.

“In writing?”

“Mr. Clark’s word is--”

“As good as his bond. Naturally. I was merely thinking of such a letter
not necessarily as a guarantee of good faith, but for publication.”

A thin, gray veil appeared to draw itself across Mr. Garson’s
countenance, out of which his eyes stared with an aspect of surprise and
fright. This animal had claws! “For publication?” he gasped.

“That’s it. You don’t think he’d do it? Well, he’s wise--to that extent,
anyway. Now, you go back and tell Clark that when we open up for bribes
we’ll take cash--and publish the news in the paper.”

“What did you do to little Eddie Garson?” asked Andrew Galpin, coming in
a moment later. “I just met him in the hall.”

Jeremy explained.

“You’re a rude thing!” grinned the general manager. “What’s your idea in
going up against the P.-U.?”

“Partly personal,” confessed Jeremy. “That puffy Clark thing rasps my
nerves. Anyway, I don’t like the P.-U. methods, public or private, and
I’m not going to stand any bulldozing.”

“Going to fight?”

“If it comes to that.”

“Know what it’ll cost us?”

“No.”

“More than a thousand a year if they pull out all their regular
advertising.”

“It’s tough, Andy. But I don’t know any other way to run a paper.”

“Oh, I’m not kickin’! It ain’t my money. I enjoy it. Maybe he won’t pull
out, unless we go after him first.”

“I’m going after him, though, the next raw deal the P.-U. tries to put
through.”

“Let’s pray they’ll be good, then,” said Galpin.

Upon receipt of the hand-perfected private secretary’s report, though
it was carefully edited to avoid too unbearable offense, Mr. Clark waxed
exceedingly wroth. His first intent was to order all future advertising
in The Guardian stopped. Passion always had the first word with Montrose
Clark, but shrewdness had the last. Shrewdness said, “Wait.” Montrose
Clark could be a good waiter. He waited.

Jeremy Robson did n’t. He published on the following day an editorial,
“Public Utilities and Public Rights,” stating unequivocally The
Guardian’s attitude, which gave deep scandal to President Clark and
inspired the darkest misgivings in the mind of the diplomatic Judge
Dana. The lawyer hurried around to see his principal.

“What did you do or say to young Robson?” he demanded.

Outraged innocence sat blackly on the presidential brow. “Nothing,” he
declared. “He--he sent me an insulting message. He refused to come and
see me. I’ll smash him.”

“Very likely. Meantime he’s smashed our transfer scheme. Or he will
smash it when the time comes.”

“I shall go ahead with it just the same.”

“You’ll be swamped. He’s dug up some tax assessment material on us that
would n’t look pretty in print if he sprung it now. We’ll have to go
slow.”

The President of the P.-U. swallowed his desire for immediate reprisals.
He felt that his prey was sure in the long run. No newspaper could
offend consistently the important people and interests of a community
as The Guardian was doing, and continue to make a living. That way
bankruptcy lay!

Personally, Montrose Clark declared against this young upstart a war of
extermination. He would eliminate the noxious creature. He would make
the town too hot for him.

Vast would have been his rage could he have known that, at the same
time, the editor was meditating much the same design concerning himself.
War to the finish, on both sides. And all, in the first instance,
because of a minor affectation expressed in the pronunciation of the
hybrid word “rippawtah.” Of such petty stuff are human complications
constructed, and thereby the plans of the mighty brought to dust!




CHAPTER V

POLITICS as such had never greatly interested Jeremy Robson. The
trivial and blatant insincerities of party platforms offended a mind
naturally direct and sincere. As he saw the game played at the Capitol,
it seemed to consist mainly in clumsy finesse directed to unprofitable
ends, on the part of the lawmakers, back of whom sat the little tin
gods of finance and commerce, as players sit back of the pieces on a
chessboard. Only, it dawned upon Jeremy, in this game it was the public
that paid the stakes; the public which Jeremy intended that The Guardian
should represent. His platform was “Fair play all around and a chance
for all.”

Being of such mind, he was naturally sympathetic to the fervent and
altruistic radicalism of Senator Embree. Almost before he knew it, he
was committed to the broad, general policies of a new faction whose
immediate object was to capture the party machinery and elect Embree
Governor. Farmers, the more thoughtful class of labor in the industrial
centers, and that floating vote which is always restless of party
control, made up the bulk of “Smiling Mart’s” support. His newspaper
backing was scanty. In Bellair, the chief city of Centralia, The Journal
lent its valuable support to most of his measures and to his general
policies. A score of country journals were thick-and-thin adherents. The
Guardian soon began to be classed with these for loyalty and with the
Bellair Journal for weightiness, in support of the new movement.

Jeremy Robson’s spirited editorial attacks upon the controlled State
administration were now establishing his paper as a gospel to the
fermenting political elements, and had earned the indignant distrust
of those interests which base loud claims to impregnable respectability
upon the ground of returning reliable dividends to their stockholders.
To these he was anathema; a “dangerous radical,” a “half-Socialist,” an
“enemy of American institutions,” a “confessed demagogue,” and the
like impressive and silly characterizations. The Guardian was quoted,
confuted, and abused over the State. It had become a power.

While Jeremy and Andrew Galpin and their lesser aides were struggling
with the various immediate and insistent problems of a newspaper’s
existence and sustenance, and establishing their organ before the public
as genuinely independent in thought and unhampered in the expression of
it, political prestige, which is not acquired in a day by a newspaper
any more than by an individual, steadily accrued to it. Jeremy Robson
had owned The Guardian for a year before he fully realized his political
responsibilities in that what was said editorially in his paper greatly
mattered to some thousands of earnest and groping minds. Not only this.
He himself mattered, individually, as controlling The Guardian. His
visiting list became inconveniently large. People took to dropping in at
the office to discuss, advise, approve, or object, particularly visitors
from the outlying districts who deemed it an all-sufficient introduction
to state that they were “friends of Mart Embree.” Whether through the
direct procurement of that energetic campaigner or otherwise, Jeremy
found that The Guardian was considered to be not only the representative
but the proprietary organ of the new movement. Financially this was an
important asset. Nevertheless, the editor disrelished it. Remembering
A. M. Wymett’s disquisition, he heartily resented his newspaper’s being
regarded as the horn to any one’s phonograph! Moreover, all these calls
ate up time. But that paid for itself in widened acquaintance and a
more sympathetic understanding of the people who, after all, made up the
Commonwealth cf Centralia. He made friends readily with them. They liked
him as soon as they adjusted themselves to the shock of his apparel
which they deemed dudish.

The World-War was still more than a year distant, still but the dream
of such pessimistic and flighty minds as A. M. Wymett’s, when politics
began to boil again in Centralia, and in that steaming stew of policies,
principles, pretenses, ambitions, and chicaneries there simmered,
all unseen, one of the minor but far-spread schemes of the Teutonic
war-lord’s propaganda. It came to Jeremy’s ears through a call from
Magnus Laurens, already being talked of as opposition candidate to
Martin Embree, and already the subject of frank rather than well-judged
comment, in the pages of The Guardian, as representing franchise-holding
control of government. The water-power magnate looked squarer, ruggeder,
more determined and formidable even than on the occasion when Jeremy had
first seen him grimly facing the ridicule of the German societies. He
was nearer sixty than fifty and walked like a football captain, and the
blue eyes under the severe brows, as they met Jeremy’s, were alert and
hard. The editor rose to greet him, holding out his hand.

“I did n’t come here to shake your hand,” said Laurens quietly. “I came
to tell you something.”

Jeremy sat down. “Tell ahead,” said he.

“You’ ve been using my name too freely in your paper.”

“You’re a public character.”

“My name is my own. I’m particular about it. I keep it clean. Your paper
has coupled it up with names that are n’t clean.”

“Did I choose your political associates, Mr. Laurens?” said Jeremy
keenly.

“Political criticism is one thing. Innuendoes of crookedness and graft
are another.”

“We’ll reach no common ground as regards your waterpower operations. I’m
against you there. You’re selling to the people, at a profit, power that
should belong to them.”

“That’s theory. With that I’ve no quarrel. But when your paper moralizes
about franchise-grafting, and hints at bribery, leave me out of it.”

The editor reflected. On Martin Embree’s representations, he had assumed
Laurens’s operations to be founded in corruption. But what proof had he,
after all?

“The Dollard’s Falls Charter--” he began and was cut short.

“The records are open to you. The books of the company are open to you.
I’ll even go that far, if it’s facts you’re after. Or is it hush-money?”

“Which do you think?”

The hard, blue eyes looked at him with a more interested scrutiny.
Magnus Laurens grunted. “Bird of a different feather from Wymett,” he
surmised doubtfully.

“A little.”

“Well, I’m different from Sellers and Corey and Bellows and that lot.
Bear that in mind. If you couple me up with them again, I’ll be back
here for _real_ trouble.”

“Coming back to lick the editor?” asked Jeremy, contemplating the
muscle-packed figure of the other with a smile. “If so, I’ll lay in a
length of lead pipe.”

“Lay in a lawyer and a good one,” advised the visitor grimly. “For I’ll
be after you for criminal libel. No fiddling little damage suits for me.
That’s what I came to tell you.”

“All right. I’ve got it. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Then it’s my turn. You control the Oak Lodge Pulp Company.”

“I have an interest in it.”

“The Guardian buys its print paper from you.”

“Yes.”

“When you came here did you have in mind any--well, exchange of
courtesies, editorial for business consideration, in respect to future
deals?”

“I did not. I don’t do business that way,” retorted Magnus Laurens with
emphasis.

“Did you think that perhaps I was aiming in that direction, with my
comments on you?”

The magnate changed color a little. “I might have suspected something of
the sort.”

“You were wrong.”

“Very well. I was wrong. Anything else?”

“Yes. If I’ll undertake that The Guardian shall say nothing more along
the line which you find objectionable without specific and definite
charges taken from the records, will you acquit me--that is, will you
consider that you’ve scared me sufficiently?”

Magnus Laurens blinked. “I’m not a fool,” he said presently. “Scared
you? You’re no more afraid of me than I am of you.”

“Then you’ve done better than scare me. You’ve convinced me that you
mean what you say. You and I can fight fair.”

“I’ll shake hands now,” said Laurens, and did. “You’re all wrong. You’ve
been misled by that quack, Embree. But I suppose a man can be wrong and
still be straight.”

“Exactly what I’m supposing about you,” retorted Jeremy. “Now, sit down,
Mr. Laurens, and tell me some real political news.”

Laurens drew a chair up opposite the editor. “Do you think you’d print
it?”

“News is The Guardian’s stock in trade.”

“Here’s some, then. A bill is going to be introduced this fall to
Germanize our public schools farther.”

“What’s the substance of it?”

“Making German practically compulsory in the grade schools.”

“They’ll never pass it.”

“Watch them! What leader is going to oppose it? In a governorship
election year?”

“Who will introduce it?”

“Some nonentity. It will have the most powerful radical support. You can
guess from whom.”

“I don’t guess, professionally.”

“Then I’ll tell you. Martin Embree.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Ask him. My sources of information are reliable.”

“Can I get a copy of the bill?”

“Here’s a rough outline of it. It is n’t fully decided on yet, as to
details.”

“Who drew it up?”

“The Reverend Theo Gunst, Henry Dolge, and Professor Brender, of the
German Department at Old Central, on the basis of a plan which Herr
Professor Koerner left when he was here. It’s one of the moves in the
development of ‘Deutschturn.’ Have you ever seen the Germanizing scheme
for Centralia gotten up in the eighties?”

“No. I’ve heard there was such a thing.”

“Colonization up to a certain point. Then the establishment of a Little
Germany through making German the official language of the schools, the
courts, and the Legislature. Peaceful conquest idea.”

“And this bill is a revival of that plan, you think?”

“It has that appearance. Will The Guardian support it?”

“No.”

“Will it oppose it?”

“Who’s doing this interviewing, you or me, Mr. Laurens?” smiled Jeremy.

“Call it an exchange.”

“All right. Yes: we’ll oppose it. What about you?”

“It’s well enough known where I stand.”

“As a private citizen, yes. But as candidate for Governor?”

“I am not a candidate for Governor.”

“Not formally. But you’re going to be. What about this German school
bill then? Will you oppose it?”

“I certainly won’t dodge it. Are you going to pass on this conversation
to ‘Smiling Mart’ Embree?”

“Not if it’s confidential.”

“Then I think this latter part is, for the present. To be quite frank, I
don’t want to meet that issue till I have to.”

“You’re right. It’ll probably beat you.”

“Possibly. But if the issue is once raised, it won’t die out of people’s
minds readily. That’s something.” He paused, then added casually: “By
the way, our first meeting was in a pretty German atmosphere. Do you
recall the meeting where little Miss Ames stood up for the flag? That
took character.”

Jeremy’s face became wistful. “Do you ever hear from her--Miss Ames?”

“Eh? My daughter does. Did you--Why, you were the one that put her on
the golf team, were n’t you! I’d forgotten. You must be a good teacher.”

“She was a good pupil. Never knew when she was beaten.”

“It didn’t happen often enough for her to know, I guess,” laughed the
magnate. “She came out to visit Elizabeth and made a fool of me on my
own course. I owe you a grudge for that, young man! Will you take me out
and show me some of the tricks some time when I’m down here? We’ll
talk politics while we go around, so you can soothe your conscience for
taking the time off.”

“Glad to. Miss Ames and I used to play in the early morning, but I guess
I can take an afternoon off when you come down. By the way, where is
she?”

“In Hamburg, I believe. There was some hint of an engagement.--a
relative of her stepfather’s, I believe. Very advantageous match.”

Jeremy heard the reply “Is that so?” in a tone of flat and polite
simulation of interest, issue upon the air. It was obviously the result
of a mechanical ventriloquism of his own, for he was quite sure that
his lips had been for the moment incapable of speech. Of course he had
always known that it must come. Inevitable with a girl like Marcia. But
hope, though it withers, clings hardily to the last pulsing of secret
life in the young. Even in the heart-emptiness of a long year of
silence--except for the one note delivered by Buddy Higman--Jeremy had
cherished a delusion dear as on the day when he first met her.... He
became aware that Laurens was saying something to him. Politics--that
was it. He had to fix his mind on politics, and though life had abruptly
become sterile of hope and dreams, nevertheless there was a job to
do. For the next twenty minutes, Jeremy passed through an ordeal which
entitled him to a hero’s medal. He forced his aching mind to take in
what Laurens was telling him, and afterward he fashioned from it a
skillful and dispassionate interview.

After Laurens’s departure the editor opened the drawer in his desk which
was always kept locked. Therein were a dozen golf scores--he was still
very young, and his stock of souvenirs had been pathetically scant--her
note and the little photograph. He understood, now, why she had written
him no letter. When she gave him up, she had mapped out her course for
herself. If she were not formally betrothed then, she had determined
upon the step. And having determined, she ended it all, then and there.
It was the honorable way. It was the direct, definite, frank way. It was
the right way. It was Marcia’s way.

He looked yearningly at the photograph. Wonderful how that tiny oblong
of paper, touched with a few flat tints could so evoke the very essence
and fragrance and challenging sweetness of her! She looked out at him,
all soft radiance in the hard radiance of the sunlight which flooded
her, and his fingers, bidden to tear the likeness to fragments and
scatter it--not in resentment but as a sacrificial formality--trembled
and slackened. What harm, after all, in keeping the picture? It meant
nothing--and therein Jeremy Robson lied to his own soul. It meant that
he still clung to his vision, which nothing had blurred. For no other
woman had so much as impinged upon the outskirts of his imagination.
There was neither time nor space for women other than Marcia.
He restored the picture, the note, the prim numerals of the golf
scores--how vividly he could see the full, lithe swing of the young body
vivid with untainted health and vitality as her brassie flicked the
ball cleanly from its turfy lie!--and locked the drawer again. There lay
hopes dead and ideals still unconquerably alive.

*****

Reading the Laurens interview, conspicuously played up, on its merits
as news, Martin Embree felt rise within him dark misgivings as to
his supporter. He was of that type which, in its self-centered mind,
forbodes disloyalty and suspects betrayal in any divergence of opinion
or policy from its own standards. But his smile was as brilliant as
usual, perhaps even more so, when he next met Jeremy.

“Pretty handsome send-off you gave Laurens.”

“Yes. I like him. He’s straight.”

“So’s a snake--when it’s dead. I told you to look out for him.”

“I did,” said the editor good-humoredly. “I don’t think he fooled me
any. Or even tried to.”

“He’s likely to be the man we’ve got to fight for the governorship.”

“We’ll fight him, when the time comes.”

“And meantime you boost him.”

“You’ll never understand the newspaper game, Martin. That was news;
therefore worth printing.”

“I understand this, my boy; that you can’t afford to mix up with Laurens
and his gang.”

“Oh, cheer up, Martin! I don’t intend to. But I can’t take your point
of view in everything, much as I appreciate what you’ve done for the
paper.”

Indeed, Jeremy had always given ungrudging acknowledgment of Embree’s
services to The Guardian. That first boost in circulation through
Embree’s efforts in the Northern Tier had been invaluable. And now,
through his strength in local labor circles, Embree was being of
assistance to Jeremy, in preventing strikes, and allaying trouble in
the press-room. The center of disturbance there was the white-haired,
sharp-tongued Socialist, Nick Milliken.

Most correct in his attitude toward his employer in work hours, Milliken
asserted his independence outside the “shop” by invariably addressing
him as “young feller” and usually reproaching him for “hanging onto a
half-mile-post, like Mart Embree,” instead of coming out fair and square
for Socialism and the millennium. As against him Embree played the big,
stolid German-American foreman Girdner, who had influence among the
men, and who was a political adherent of the Northern Tier Senator’s. On
the whole the internal affairs of the office were satisfactory. Another
connection between Embree and The Guardian office was maintained through
Max Verrall, the Senator’s protégé, who, having made good as circulation
manager, was now handling the paper’s advertising, as sub-head of that
department under the general supervision of Andrew Galpin.

For all favors The Guardian repaid Martin Embree by its loyal and
effectual political support. If the Senator’s friends were not always
acceptable to Jeremy’s somewhat squeamish political standards, at least
his enemies were The Guardian’s enemies. No “conspiracy of silence” on
the part of the press opposed him now. The Guardian paid so much heed to
his utterances that The Record was forced to take them up as a matter
of news. Without this aid, Embree could not have been certain of the
nomination for Governor at that time. Now it was practically assured to
him. The account between him and Jeremy Robson stood fairly balanced to
date.

Jeremy wondered how hard he would take the projected editorial campaign
against the Germanizing of the public schools.




CHAPTER VI

THAT phenomenon of finance which has relegated many a business man to
a pained and bewildered retirement, increase of receipts attended with
a parallel deficit, had marked The Guardian’s first year under the new
control. No question but that The Guardian was a much livelier, newsier,
more influential, and better paper. No question but that the public
appreciated this. The increased and steadily increasing circulation bore
proof. With reluctance the local advertisers also accepted the fact.
Rates had been raised, to the accompaniment of loud protests, which were
largely formal, for the merchants paid the higher charge, and, in many
cases, increased their advertising appropriation. The Guardian was
recognized as a good medium. It was on the way to being recognized as
a necessary medium. When a newspaper reaches that point, its fortune is
made.

But a newspaper is like an automobile or a loaf of bread in this
fundamental respect, that it costs more to make a good than a bad one.
All the special features which Andrew Galpin had put on, mounted up into
money. The staff was more expensive. The telegraphic service cost more.
At no time had swelling revenues quite overtaken rising expenditures.
Galpin, however, who had originally suggested to the new boss A Short
Life and a Merry One as The Guardian’s appropriate motto, was now
optimistic. He confidently believed the paper to be within measurable
distance of assured success.

“But we’re pretty near at the end of our rope--my rope,” Jeremy pointed
out.

“Ay-ah. There’s other ropes dangling around loose. Why not hitch to
one?”

“Borrow?”

“I’ve heard of its being done in business,” replied the general manager
quizzically. “Somebody’s got to help the banks make a living.”

“How much do you think we need?”

Galpin juggled with a pencil and a sheet of paper. “Let’s get enough
while we’re at it. Twenty thousand ought to be the last cent we’ll ever
have to ask for.”

“Can we get that much?” asked the other doubtfully. “On the security of
the plant? Easy.”

Jeremy’s money was in the Fenchester Trust Company, of which Robert
Wanser was president. No difficulty whatsoever was made by him when
Jeremy called. Wanser was an anomaly in national sentiment. The
grandson of a leader of the Young German movement who had found refuge
in this country from the rigorous repression of Germany in ’48, the
son of a major who fought with distinction for the Union through the
Civil War, he remained impregnably Teutonic in thought, sentiment, and
prejudice. He was a large, softish man who suggested in his appearance
a sleek and benignant walrus. He sat back in his chair and listened and
puffed and nodded, and when the applicant was through, made a notation
on a bit of paper. The rest was merely a matter of “Jeremy Robson” at
the bottom of a dated form, and “Do you wish to draw it now or leave
it on deposit, Mr. Robson?” To the borrower it seemed like the nearest
thing to magic since his great-aunt’s bequest.

“And how is the paper getting on, Mr. Robson?” asked Wanser
benevolently.

“First-rate. We can feel it taking hold harder and harder every day.”

“Ah!” Robert Wanser’s “Ah” had just the faintest touch of a medial “c”
 in it; just a hint of the guttural, the only relic left in his speech of
a Teutonicism which three generations had failed to Americanize. “That
must be a great satisfaction.”

“It is.”

“And a great responsibility. What a power for good a newspaper may be,
even in a small community such as this! Or for evil. Or for evil,” he
repeated sorrowfully.

Jeremy waited.

“It can radiate enlightenment. Or it can scatter poison. The poison of
class hatred, of political unrest, of racial dissension.” He sighed.

Always for the direct method Jeremy asked, “You think The Guardian is
too radical?”

“A(c)h!” said Robert Wanser. “I have not assumed to criticize.”

“I’m asking for information. That’s the only way I can make the paper
better. By finding out what people think of it.”

“A(c)h, yes! There is much to commend in your paper. Much! But it is not
always quite kindly, is it? Not quite kindly.”

“Probably not. What have you got in mind?”

“Nothing in particular,” disclaimed the banker. “I feel that in our
complicated system there is room for all classes of thought, and that
all of us who are, in a sense, leaders should set the example of a
broad tolerance. The imputation of unworthy motives, for example, can do
nothing but harm. A community such as this should be a brotherhood, all
working for the common good of the town. Don’t you agree with me, Mr.
Robson?”

To agree with so pious a banality would have been easy; was, in fact,
almost a requirement of politeness. But Jeremy was wondering what lay
behind all these words. “I don’t know,” he said. “It sounds all right.
But I don’t get your real meaning.”

Mr. Wanser hastily disclaimed any real meaning, and the interview
proceeded in a mist of steamy generalities contributed by the banker,
of which one alone impressed the editor as embodying the kernel of a
thought.

“You may gain temporary circulation by making enemies, but you lose
support.”

“But a newspaper has got to take sides on public questions,” protested
Jeremy.

“Why so? Why should it not be a lens, to collect and focus facts for the
public’s attention?”

“It should, in the news columns. But editorially?”

“Comment,” said Wanser blandly. “Simple, explanatory, enlightening
comment.”

“It won’t do the business. Take this tax matter--”

“A(c)h! Very unfortunate! Very unfortunate!” murmured the banker.

“Of course it’s unfortunate,” returned Jeremy warmly. “It’s unfortunate
that those best able to pay taxes should get off light at the expense of
those less able to pay.”

“That is not what I meant. These attacks upon property--”

“They’re not attacks on property, when property plays fair. Would a
simple comment have brought old Madam Taylor to time?”

“Perhaps. Why not?”

Jeremy rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would. The facts were
enough just as they stood.” Madam Taylor, the daughter of the dead
statesman who had founded The Guardian, was not only the richest woman
in Fenchester, but was also a highly respected and considerably feared
local institution. Because of that her taxes had not been raised in
thirty years, though her property had quadrupled in value, until The
Guardian shocked the community by running afoul of her.

“You might have so enraged her that she would have left Fenchester
forever,” accused Wanser.

“Small loss, then,” returned Jeremy heatedly, he having been the victim
of the old lady’s spiciest line of commentary, after publication of the
article.

“A(c)h! It would be a misfortune to the town,” said the banker,
thinking, on his part, of the heavy balance in the name of Taylor at his
bank.

“Anyway, Mr. Wanser,” said Jeremy, rising to go, “I’m no neutral. I’m
for or against. And, in reason, The Guardian will be the same. Maybe I’m
wrong. But it’s the only way I know. If it makes enemies, I’m sorry.”
 Indeed it had seemed to the young editor that circulation for The
Guardian and enmities for its owner were inevitable concomitants in the
making. Every local question upon which he took sides landed him upon
somebody’s tender toes. Much of the news that he printed--such as had
not been printed for fear of hurting some more or less influential
person’s feelings, before The Guardian espoused the policy that news is
a commodity to which the public is entitled by virtue of its purchase of
the paper--exasperated and even alienated the sympathies of the formerly
favored elements. But it did n’t cause them to stop buying the paper,
because they shrewdly hoped to find equally interesting and annoying
items, later, about their friends. Then there was the matter of special
consideration to the advertising patrons; a principle by which the
mercantile crowd resolutely held, despite Jeremy’s pronunciamento at
the luncheon. At least three fourths of the advertisers in town, Jeremy
estimated, were fitfully concerned either in getting into The Guardian
matters which didn’t belong there, or in keeping out matters which did;
or, if not they, themselves, then their wives, children, or intimate
associates. With respect to all these requests, he cultivated a
determined and expensive habit of saying “No.” Thereby, if the paper
became newsier and scored a more than occasional “beat” on its rival,
The Record, it also became a heavier burden to carry, as the wrath of
the afflicted gathered stormily about its head.

Though local advertisers resented the policy of the paper, they
appreciated its value. That is all that kept them in. Verrall, in his
activities as advertising manager, was constantly reporting evidences of
a hostile spirit. Half of the big stores in town, he said, would knife
The Guardian in a minute if they dared. He represented himself as being
obliged to spend more time in diplomatic soothings than he could well
spare from the routine of his work, and while advocating the utmost
freedom of criticism in public matters, as befitted a follower
of Embree, was mildly deprecatory of what he termed “Mr. Robson’s
hedgehoggishness toward advertisers.” Malicious tongues, moreover, had
been at work among the Germans, who formed an important part of the
local mercantile world, spreading the report that The Guardian was
secretly anti-German. If Mr. Robson could see his way clear to giving
the German-Americans an editorial pat on the back occasionally, it would
aid Verrall considerably in building up his space. Mr. Robson replied
that, as it was, he was publishing a fair amount of German press-stuff,
and he saw no reason to do any editorial soft-sawdering for Mr. Bausch
and his faction.

Foreign advertising, such as the nationally exploited automobiles,
soaps, razors, breakfast foods, and the like was now coming in in
good volume, a most encouraging development, for these big advertisers
exercise a keen discrimination in the matter of newspaper space,
and their general support not only makes a paper “look good” to the
technical eye, but also gives it a certain cachet among lesser concerns.
To the high-grade national businesses The Guardian had made special
appeal by expelling from its columns the fake financial, oil, gold,
rubber, and real-estate dollar-traps, and the quack cure-alls, whose
neighborhood in print the reputable concerns resent.

To offset this, the paper had lost in volume of local advertising.
Several of the large stores had cut down their space, in token of
resentment over the raise in rates, and had restored it only gradually
and not to the full. Barclay & Bull had stayed out for more than six
months. But this helped more than it hurt The Guardian, for their
business showed a marked falling-off and their being obliged to come
back in, rather shamefacedly, was testimony to the paper’s value.
Turnbull Brothers, of The Emporium, the largest of the department
stores, had, however, cut off The Guardian wholly, in consequence of its
reporting a fire in the local freight yard, with the detail that a large
consignment to The Emporium of the bankrupt stock of Putz & Lewin, of
Chicago, was included in the losses. As the arrival of this consignment
was coincident with the announcement of The Emporium’s annual
“Grand Clearance Sale,” the effect was, as their advertising manager
passionately stated to Jeremy, “derogatory as hell.” He demanded
a retraction. The editor politely regretted that facts were both
untractable and unretractable matter to deal with. The Turnbulls
threatened libel. Jeremy told them to go ahead and promised to print
daily accounts of the proceedings. The Turnbulls resorted to violent
names and called off their contract for advertising. Jeremy dismissed
them with his blessing, and told them not to come back until they had
learned the distinction between advertising and news. Thereupon Verrall
bewailed the sad fate of the advertising manager of a paper whose chief
was an irreconcilable stiff-neck, and appealed to Andrew Galpin, but
got nothing by that step other than unsympathetic advice to confine his
troubles to his own department lest a worse thing befall him.

Then there was the case of Aaron Levy, of The Fashion, who, starting on
the proverbial shoestring, was building up a wide low-class trade, and
spreading his gospel through the columns of The Guardian, to the extent
of occasional one-eighth pages. One phase of the Levy trade was a legal
but unsavory installment business, the details of which were frequently
threshed out in petty civil court actions. One of these, with a “human
interest” end, was reported in The Guardian. Mr. Levy promptly called on
Jeremy.

“What you want to do? Ruin my business?” he demanded.

“Is that account true?” asked Jeremy.

“Neffer mind if it’s true. It didn’t have to get printed.”

“Your business ought to be ruined, from what the Court thinks of it.”

“You take my money for advertising it all right,” the protestant pointed
out with justice.

“So we do. We won’t any more. The Guardian won’t carry your installment
business, Mr. Levy.”

“Maybe you’re too good to have my ads in your paper at all!”

“Oh, no. We’ll be glad to have everything but that one line.”

“You can’t run my business for me, don’t you think it!” adjured Mr.
Levy in one emphatic breath, and departed with a righteous conviction of
unmerited injury.

The Fashion’s one-eighth pages no longer graced The Guardian. Too
shrewdly devoted to his trade to stay out entirely, Mr. Levy confined
himself to terse announcements in the briefest and cheapest possible
space. He also helped to spread the evil rumor that young Robson was
“sore on the business men of Fenchester.” Business men there were,
however, shrewd, fair-minded, and far-seeing enough to appreciate The
Guardian’s one-standard policy, even while they deprecated what they
regarded as its abuse of independence. These formed a strong minority of
defenders and supporters. Little by little their ranks were increasing.
Andrew Galpin’s optimism, and the debt which represented it, seemed
fairly justified as the election of the fall of 1913 drew near.

Already The Guardian had far outstripped The Record in circulation and
in advertising revenue. The rival paper was being hard pressed to make
a respectable showing, and had adopted a decidedly acidulous tone toward
Jeremy and his publication, letting no opportunity pass to impugn its
motives and jeer at its principles. Ever ready for a fight, Jeremy was
for joining issue on the editorial page, but Galpin’s wiser counsel
withheld him.

“Nobody cares for newspaper squabbles but newspaper men,” said that
sage. “We’re not making a newspaper for newspaper men. We’re making a
newspaper for Bill Smith and Jim Jones and their missises. And we’re
getting ’em!”

But Jeremy Robson was making a newspaper to meet another, more
demanding, more changeful standard which was yet in a great measure the
same. He was making a newspaper for Jeremy Robson; for Jeremy Robson,
who, with a surprised and humble and hungry mind, was being educated by
that very newspaper which he himself was making. More and more Jeremy
Robson, editor of The Guardian, was identifying himself in mind and
spirit with Bill Smith and Jim Jones and their missises, readers and
followers of The Guardian. Because of that fellowship, because of the
implied link of faith and trust that had grown up, impalpable, between
them, evidenced in hundreds of letters to and scores of calls upon “the
editor,” there had been established standards to which The Guardian was
inviolably if tacitly committed. There were things which The Guardian
might not do. There were things which, when the time came, it might not
refrain from doing. An implicit faith was pledged. So and not otherwise
does a newspaper become an institution.

Yet The Guardian was Jeremy’s very own. He felt for it the proprietary
pride and interest of a man with a growing business and a growing
influence to wield, and, added to that the affection of a child for a
toy machine--which actually goes! He coddled his paper and petted it,
and treated it, when he could, to new and better equipment, and awoke
one day to the unpleasant realization that the editorials which he so
enjoyed writing, and the growing, widening response to which constituted
his most satisfactory reward, were physically a blotch and a blur and
an affront to the staggering and baffled eye. The Guardian needed a new
dress and needed it badly!

Now the garmenture of a newspaper is of a costliness to make Paquin,
Caillot, and their Parisian congeners of the golden needle appear like
unto ragpickers, when the bills come in. Jeremy bought The Guardian a
new dress of type. It made a hideous hole, a chasm, an abyss in the loan
negotiated from the Trust Company. But the paper became a festival to
the proud eye of its owner. Galpin helped salve his chief’s conscience
by agreeing that they would have had to do it sooner or later anyway.

Well advised of the loan, the status of the paper’s finances, and the
new plunge, Montrose Clark and his legal satellite, Judge Dana, held
consultation. Now, they decided, was the providentially appointed time
for trying out the transfer ordinance in the City Council. The Guardian,
whose opposition they had feared, had put itself in a position where it
must “be good.”

“That young cub,” said Montrose Clark confidently, “will have to come
into line.”

“With management. With careful management,” amended Judge Dana.

“Anyway!” returned the public utilitarian. “He’ll need every cent he
can get and when he sees five or six hundred dollars as his share of our
advertising campaign of education, with more to follow, he’ll take his
orders like the others. I’ll send for him in a day or two.”

“What, again?” said Judge Dana.

The puffy jowl of Montrose Clark deepened in color. “I shall not
tolerate any more of his impudence,” he declared. “He will come when
sent for or--”

“Now, Mr. Clark, this is a case for diplomacy.”

“For you, you mean, Dana.”

“What do you employ me for?” soothed the lawyer. “Just you have a copy
of the ordinance drawn up. Tell Garson to get up the advertising figures
and give them to me. I’ll talk to young Mr. Robson.”

The magnate assented, though with an ill grace. “Will you take up the
matter of your candidacy with him at the same time?”

Matters were so shaping themselves in politics, that with the figure of
Martin Embree looming and the probability of a strong radical vote in
the Legislature, the P.-U. and its allied traction interests in the
State deemed it advisable to place a safe representative on the Court
of Appeals bench, where much may be done by “interpretation” to offset
destructive legislation. Dana had been selected as the man. In his early
days the Judge had weathered, with difficulty and not without damage to
his reputation, two or three legal tempests, one of which had all but
caused his disbarment. Had not Montrose Clark, already finding him
valuable as a clever quasher of damage suits in their early stages,
employed his influence, the Judge would have ceased to ornament the
legal profession. He had since gone far to rehabilitate himself in the
eyes of the public, by sticking close to high-class, quiet (not to say
secret) corporation work. But the better men of his own profession,
while recognizing his abilities, were still suspicious of him, though
not to the point where any protest was likely to be made in the face of
such powerful interests as were backing him.

Judge Dana pondered his patron’s question. “That depends on how he takes
the transfer plan,” he replied.

“You gave me advice about him,” said Montrose Clark rather maliciously;
“to handle him with gloves. You see how it came out. Now I’ll give you
some in return. Put the screws on the young fool!”

“Not my way. And not his description. He’s got a lot to learn. I’m going
there as his teacher. I would n’t be, if he was a fool.”

Channels of communication bring information (and even more
misinformation) from many sources into an editor’s office. Through
one of these Jeremy had learned of the projected transfer plan’s
recrudescence. Therefore he was prepared when Judge Dana, having called
by appointment, stated the case flatly.

“We want your support,” he said.

“This is a pretty raw deal, Judge Dana,” remarked Jeremy.

The lawyer’s thin and solemn face did not alter its expression of bland
disinterestedness. “Not if looked at in the right light.”

“What is the right light?”

“The P.-U. needs the new arrangement in order to perfect its service to
the public. The greatest good to the greatest number.”

“Number One,” suggested Jeremy. “Mr. Montrose Clark.”

“Setting aside any personal prejudice in the matter, what have you
against the Public Utilities Corporation?”

“It does n’t play fair. It is always begging for special privileges and
then establishing them as rights after it has got them.”

The lawyer reflected that this theory, presented and amplified
editorially in The Guardian, would be unpleasantly difficult to refute.

“After all, it performs a public service,” he pointed out, a bit lamely.

“The public could do it for itself better and cheaper.”

“That’s Embreeism. It’s Socialism.”

“Call it what you like. It’s common sense.”

“Let me advise you, in the friendliest spirit, not to take up any such
scatter-brained theories in your paper. They’d wreck it.”

“That may come later. I’ll tell you this now, Judge. We won’t support
the transfer plan.”

“I never thought you would,” said the lawyer calmly. “What’s the idea of
this call, then?”

“To suggest that you keep your hands off and let us fight it out in
Council.”

Jeremy laughed outright. “You don’t ask me to hold the easy mark while
you go through his pockets. Only to stand by and not interfere.”

Judge Dana grinned. “I don’t care much for the style of your metaphor,”
 he confessed.

“Judge, I’m afraid it’s no go. You can easily bulldoze or bribe the
Council, if we keep our hands off.”

“Fair words, my boy! Fair words! Has n’t The Guardian ever done any
bulldozing?”

“Expect it has--in a good cause.”

“This is a good cause. It’s going to be good for you as well as us--and
the public.”

“As how?” queried Jeremy.

“Our plan is to present the new system to the public through a series of
advertisements. Education, you understand. The modern way: through the
press. Would you like to see the outline?”

“Come to the point. What’s the amount?”

Where the hand-perfected Garson would have seen hope in the question,
the warier lawyer scented danger to his plans. Nevertheless he went
ahead. “Five hundred, minimum. Perhaps as high as a thousand, if the
public is slow to learn. Our total advertising appropriation this year,”
 stated Judge Dana with great deliberation, “will run to five thousand
dollars. There is no reason why The Guardian should not get a half of
it. At least a half.”

“Did Mr. Clark ever get the message that I sent him by Garson, as to
bribes?”

“Bribes?” The lawyer looked properly startled. “I don’t know. I doubt
it.”

“I sent word to Clark that when I got ready to take bribes, I’d take
them direct, in the form of cash.”

“But I’m not offering to bribe you or The Guardian,” protested the
other. “It’s a matter of simple business. We institute an advertising
campaign in a newspaper. We don’t ask it to advocate our measures; to a
finicking mind that might seem to be a form of bribery. No; we only ask
that, having published our advertising and accepted us as customers, the
paper refrain from rendering the service we’ve paid for useless or worse
than useless, by attacking our arguments editorially. Is n’t that fair
and reasonable?” pleaded the lawyer, with a plausible gesture of laying
the matter out for equitable judgment.

Jeremy passed the argument. “Do you think Garson ever delivered my
message?”

“I should think it unlikely,” returned the other, taken slightly aback.

“Afraid?”

“Politic.”

“The same thing, usually. Are you afraid of Montrose Clark?”

The lawyer reddened. “I came here as one gentleman to another--”

“With an offer of hush-money,” broke in the editor. “Come, Judge; you
and I are down to hard-pan. We can dispense with bluff. However, if you
don’t like the word ‘afraid’--I don’t like it much, myself, but that’s
because there are so many things I’m trying not to be afraid of--I’ll
take it back. Now; will you take my message to Clark, as Garson would
n’t?”

“No; I will not.”

“Then I’ll have to write it to him. Or, I might print it in The
Guardian, in the form of an open letter following this interview.”

“This is a confidential visit,” cried the lawyer, shocked clean out of
his professional calm.

“You’ve got me there,” admitted the other. “I’ve got to play square if I
put up the bluff, have n’t I, Judge? Even with you.”

“I’m damned if I understand you, young man.”

“Cheer up. We’ve got many long years to learn all about each other in.”

“You think The Guardian will last?” Dana could not resist the temptation
to impart the dig.

“It’ll be remembered, if it doesn’t,” promised its editor. “Won’t you
reconsider the matter of that message, Judge? You can tone it down, you
know, and temper it to the dignity of the little great man, whereas if I
write him--”

“I’ll do it,” declared Dana suddenly. “And I won’t tone it down.”

“And you’ll enjoy it,” added Jeremy with a grin, which met an unexpected
response. The two men understood each other. In a certain complementary
sense they were even sympathetic to each other.

Devastating was the wrath of Montrose Clark upon receipt of Judge Dana’s
report, wholly unexpurgated. He fumed, first redly, then purply, as if
some strange chemical reaction were taking place inside him; and from
the exhalations of that turmoil, there crystallized a most unwise
decision. Montrose Clark decided upon reprisals with his enemy’s own
weapon. He had Garson write several personal attacks upon Jeremy Robson,
and intimidated Farley into publishing them in The Record, at special
advertising rates, a procedure decidedly painful to Farley’s views of
professional ethics and journalistic fellowship. Jeremy retorted with
a series of hasty but rather brilliant imaginary interviews with one
“President Puff,” which all but drove the subject of them into an
apoplexy, and were a source of joy to the ungodly, albeit discreetly
subdued as to expression, for the P.-U. head was a man of power in
many directions. At this point the Church rushed into the breach in the
person of the Reverend Mr. Merserole, Montrose Clark’s rector, and the
benefidary of a five thousand dollar gift to the fund of the Nicklin
Avenue Church only a week previous. Both the high-minded Mr. Clark and
the high-church rector would have been profoundly and quite honestly
shocked at the suggestion that there was the faintest element of
financial influence (in impious circles called “graft”) in what
followed. But the reverend gentleman preached an able and severe sermon
upon the topic “Poisoned Pens,” in which a certain type of reckless,
demagogic, passion-inciting, self-seeking, conscienceless journalism
was lifted up to public reprobation in a pillar of fiery invective. The
Guardian violated all precedent by publishing the livelier portions of
the sermon under the caption, “Whom can the Reverend Gentleman Mean?”
 and followed this up with a report on the Clark contribution, paralleled
with further excerpts from the more spiritual and lofty portions of the
sermon, headed with the text, “Where your treasure is, there will your
heart be also.” The Reverend Mr. Merserole was pained and annoyed for
the remainder of the week by a steady influx of marked copies of
The Guardian. He was stimulated to a holy but helpless wrath by the
subsequent discovery that he, the impeccable pastor of the fashionable
Nicklin Avenue Church, had been impiously dubbed “the Nickle-in-the-Slot
rector.” This ribaldry he ascribed to Jeremy Robson’s unprofessional
wit, wherein he was wrong. As a matter of fact, it was a flash from the
quaint mind of Eli Wade, the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. But Jeremy had earned
another implacable enemy.

The Guardian did not get its share of the $500-or-more educational
advertising from the P.-U. Indeed, there was no educational advertising.
The transfer issue was passed, for the time, rather than venture into
the open where, as Judge Dana observed, “The Guardian was waiting for
it with a fish-horn and a brick”; and the P.-U.’s legal lights set
about drafting a blanket franchise for the consideration of some future
legislature, which should enable the corporation to do about what it
pleased without reference to dubious councils or pestilent journalistic
demagogues.




CHAPTER VII

CRYSTALLIZING politics left but two figures in the field for the
campaign of 1913. That Martin Embree would carry the radical banner was
a foregone conclusion. Magnus Laurens was logically the man to oppose
him. To the Clark-Wanser-Dana wing of the party, who owned the then
Governor, a weak-kneed, feeble-spirited, oratorical creature, Laurens
was distasteful. He was far more prone to give orders than to take them.
But on fundamental issues he was “right”; a sound conservative, reliably
hostile to all the quasi-socialistic theories threatening the control
of the State. Moreover his personal and political rectitude was beyond
suspicion. Like or dislike him, he was the only man in sight with a
chance of beating Embree.

Meantime “Deutschtum,” that world-wide, subterranean propaganda of
German influence, German culture, German hopes and ambitions and future
dominations which had for a quarter of a century established itself
reproductively as the ichneumon parasite affixes its eggs to the body
of the helpless host which, later, their brood will prey upon and
destroy--Deutschtum was scheming out the peaceable and subtle conquest
of Centralia through capture of the minds of the coming generations of
citizens. The Cultural Language Bill was quite harmless in appearance,
so astutely had it been drawn. Under pretense of giving parents
of public school pupils the right to secure for their children, by
petition, instruction in foreign languages, it actually established
German as a “preferred study” with the heaviest ratio of credits, and,
in the advanced schools, as practically a compulsory subject. This meant
the addition of some four to five hundred teachers of German throughout
the State, every one of whom would be a propagandist of Deutschtum. As
a side issue, the determination of the textbooks on European history was
left to the German staff. The school boards of the State being already
pretty well Teutonized, it was evident that, should the bill pass,
history as taught in the Centralia school system would be censored
agreeably to the purposes of His Imperial Majesty Wilhelm of Germany.

Originally it was intended to present the measure, backed by a
formidable list of names from the academic world, with a sprinkling
of “prominent citizens,” and push it quietly through as a purely
educational and technical matter into which, the professionals and
professors having said their say in advocacy, the public need not
trouble itself to examine. Leave these esoteric matters to the
specialists! The list of endorsers was prepared. It was comprehensive,
as regards the colleges and schools, the pedagogic element being
influenced by the natural academic sympathy for the German educational
system which honors scholarship so highly. Prominent citizens lent their
names as prominent citizens always will when a petition not affecting
their own pockets (though it may affect the national integrity of their
country) is presented. A committee, graced by the presence of Emil
Bausch, Professor Brender, head of the German Department of the local
university, Professor Rappelje, of the Economics Department, Judge
Dana, the Reverend Mr. Merserole, Farley of The Record, and others, with
Robert Wanser as chairman, made a formal appearance as sponsors. It was
a solemn, dull, and impressive occasion, and The Guardian representative
sent to report it almost yawned his head off. He sadly envied his boss
whom he had met coming out of the office juggling two white and gleaming
golf-balls. He wished he owned a paper and could devote a morning to
pure sport whenever so minded!

The golf-balls did not indicate unmingled recreation for the boss of The
Guardian. He was responding to a telephone challenge for a match with
Magnus Laurens. Since the agreement in the editor’s den, the water-power
magnate had made rather a habit of dropping in upon Jeremy when he
came to Fenchester. He would stretch his powerful figure in Jeremy’s
easy-chair, open the friendly hostilities by proposing to him that,
since he believed in other people’s property being taken over for the
public good, he should deliver The Guardian to Nick Milliken and
the real Socialists; shrewdly discuss politics and the practitioners
thereof; and invariably wind up on the main interest which the two men
held in common, the Americanization of their hybrid State.

Even at its best, Laurens’s golf-game was not redoubtable to a player of
Jeremy’s caliber. On this particular morning it was far from its best.
Turning to his opponent after a flagrant flub on the ninth green, the
older man said: “My mind isn’t on the game to-day. Let’s get an early
lunch, and talk.” As soon as they were seated at the table, he opened up
the subject.

“You’re against me, of course, in the campaign.”

“Certainly. We’re for Embree.”

“That’s all right. What I’m going to say does n’t contemplate any
possibility of your changing. Have you read the Cultural Language Bill?”

“No. I’ve sent a man up to cover the hearing.”

“Why did n’t you read it?”

“I understood it was n’t of any special importance.”

“From whom? Embree? Never mind,” added Laurens, smiling. “You need n’t
answer. Remember our conversation about Deutschtum in the schools?”

“Yes.”

“This is it.”

“As this bill was explained to me, it is n’t at all the measure you
described in outline.”

“Not on the surface. They’ve changed it. But it’s even worse in intent.”

“You’ve made a study of it?”

“They asked me to sign it. I refused.”

“Who asked you?”

“In confidence, Robert Wanser.”

“Why, he was one of the leaders in the movement for your nomination.”

“As he took pains to remind me.”

“Is this likely to be made a political issue?”

“I don’t think so. Not in the party sense. The German crowd want to push
the bill through as quietly as possible.”

“That’s natural. Once they get their system fastened on the schools--”

“It’s there to stay.”

“I guess I’ll get back to the office, Mr. Laurens. I want to get in
touch with our reporter at the hearing.” Olin, the reporter in question,
abruptly ceased yawning his head off upon receipt of instructions to
follow closely the representations made for the bill. His story,
edited by Jeremy himself with illuminating side touches, turned that
innocent-seeming measure inside out and revealed some interesting
phenomena on the inner side. One remark of Magnus Laurens--“I got my
first schooling in the Corner School-House and I want to see it stay
as American as it was in my day”--stuck in Jeremy’s mind. Out of it he
constructed an editorial on the Corner School-House as the keystone
of Americanism, never for an instant foreboding that the phrase would
become the catchword of a bitter campaign. The first effect of the
editorial was to bring Embree around to the Club at dinner-time to find
Jeremy.

“What on earth did you make that break for?” cried the harassed
statesman.

“Break? It wasn’t a break. That bill means more than you think.”

“It means nothing serious. Or it would n’t have, if you had n’t made an
issue of it. Now, the Lord knows what we’re in for!”

“An open discussion is my guess. That was the object of the editorial.”

“Oh, you’ll get that! If that were all--or half!”

“We have n’t killed the bill, have we?” asked the editor hopefully.

“No. But it will have to be cut and pruned a good deal, to meet
arguments.”

“Will that hurt your feelings?”

“I care nothing about the bill. It’s only a sop to the harmless vanity
of the Germans. But you’ve got them down on you again. And they blame me
for it.”

“_Do_ they! Why?”

The Senator laughed in a half-embarrassed way. “Well, you know, Jem, I’m
credited with having some influence with The Guardian. I wish I had half
I’m credited with.”

“You mean that you ‘re supposed to control the paper’s policies.”

“Don’t get disturbed over it. I can’t help it.”

“Nor can I, apparently,” returned the editor, frowning. “People
absolutely refuse to believe that a man is responsible for his own
paper--except when there’s something to kick on.”

“What are you going to do now about the bill?”

“Let it simmer. Take another shot at it when it comes up again.”

“Do you want to lose me the election?”

“Come out on the other side if you want to, Martin.”

“I am for the bill.”

“Make a speech and say so, then. We’ll report you in full, and give
you a leading editorial courteously regretting that so brilliant and
far-seeing and sturdily American a statesman should be in error on this
one point.”

An answering smile came into Martin Embree’s expressive face. “Go a
little light on the sturdy American feature.”

“But you are that, are n’t you?”

“Of course I am. Just on this bill, though, I don’t care to ram it down
the Germans’ throats.”

“You’ll never teach me politics, Mart,” sighed the other. “I’m too
single-barreled and one-ideaed.”

“One-eyed, my boy, one-eyed. Try to see the thing from the other
fellow’s point of view.”

“Your point of view at present is that I ‘ve gone astray from your good
influence. Is that it?”

“There are other influences, Jem.” The Senator’s smile was broad and
golden as a bar of sunlight. “I hear you were out at the swell Country
Club this morning with Magnus Laurens.”

“Your information is O.K.”

“Did he talk to you about this bill?”

“He did.”

“Is he against it?”

“He is. Refused to sign the memorial.”

Embree’s face grew heavy and thoughtful. “Did he so! I wonder if we
could get him on record?”

“Magnus Laurens is n’t likely to dodge an issue.”

“He’s a queer associate for the editor of The Guardian.”

“I pick my own associates,” retorted Jeremy shortly. “Or let them pick
you. Until they get ready to drop you again. That’s the way with those
fellows that have got too much money.”

“He isn’t likely to buy me away, Martin,” replied Jeremy, recovering his
temper.

“I’m not worrying.” The Embree smile was on duty again. “What bothers me
is what the Germans will do to you for to-day’s paper.”

What the Germans did to Jeremy Robson was, in the terse slang of
the day, a plenty. The German press, religious and lay, attacked The
Guardian as an exponent of a narrow and blighting Know-Nothingism. One
or two small German organizations passed high-sounding resolutions of
reprehension. There was a flood of letters and enough “stop-the-paper”
 orders to afflict the soul of the much-tried Verrall. The most definite
response came from Bernard Stockmuller, the jeweler, a generous
advertising patron of The Guardian. On the morning following the hearing
on the bill he met Jeremy on the street and stopped him.

“Vot you got against the Chermans, Mr. Robson?” he demanded truculently.

“Not a thing in the world.”

“Emil Bausch told alretty how you turned down Prinds Henry’s ledder.”

“I did not.”

“He says you are a Cherman-hater. If you are a Cher-man-hater,”
 continued the irate jeweler, overriding the other’s protest, “I guess a
Cherman’s money ain’t good enough for you. My advertising you don’d get
any more.”

“I don’t need it on those terms,” replied the owner of The Guardian.
“And you may tell Mr. Bausch from me that he lies.”

No other advertiser actually deserted the paper, though Verrall reported
much ill-feeling among the German mercantile element. The sturdy jeweler
alone was enough a man of principle to make his nationalism superior to
his business.

“Is it worth while?” was the argument posed by Embree, a fortnight
later when the bill, in re-amended form, was coming up again, and Jeremy
was whetting his pen for another tilt at it. “You’ve done the job. Can’t
you drop it now?”

“Have we done the job, though?”

“Surely. Look at the bill now. Practically everything you objected to is
out. I’ll guarantee it harmless, myself.”

What he said was in a sense true. Practically every point made in The
Guardian had been speciously met in the new draft of the bill. But, in
essence, it remained the same, an instrument of Deutschtum. Jeremy did
not look at the amended measure more than to give it a hasty glance. He
accepted it on the Honorable Martin Embree’s word; and as he did so he
was conscious deep within himself that he was dodging responsibility;
that he really did not want to know too much about the new form.
The Stockmuller incident had disturbed him, for he liked the little,
impetuous jeweler. Then, too, the accusation that he could endure with
the least equanimity was that of narrow-mindedness. Men whose sound
Americanism was as trustworthy as their technical judgment had endorsed
the measure. The Guardian went off guard. The bill became a law.

Unforeseen concomitants marked its political course. Embree, playing
expert politics, so arranged matters that Magnus Laurens was challenged
repeatedly on the “Corner School-House” issue. It did not lie within
Laurens’s vigorous and frank nature to refrain from declaring any
principle which he held. He replied in speeches which, slightly and
cleverly distorted by the trained German-language press, gave profound
and bitter offense to the German-Americans, even the best of them.
Taking up the controversy at the politically effective moment, Embree
pushed it, making the most of his adversary’s alleged prejudice and
narrowness, particularly in the foreign-born districts. Long before the
election it was evident that the school-house slogan alone would beat
Laurens. He was heavily defeated. That morning’s golf with Jeremy did
it.

In honor, The Guardian had refrained from making use of the “Corner
School-House” issue against Laurens. Jeremy at least would not play the
turncoat. He persuaded himself that, in resisting Embree’s arguments for
a strategic change of base, he was doing all that could be required
of him. Nevertheless, it was with an inner qualm that he met Magnus
Laurens, a week after the election, their first interview since the
golf-game.

“Well, Mr. Laurens,” he said, “you made a good fight. We can’t all win.”

“But some of us can stand by our colors even if we lose,” said the
downright Laurens, and passed on.

“Can’t stand defeat,” said Jeremy to himself.

But the explanation did not satisfy his inner self. Deep down he was
conscious of his first surrender.




CHAPTER VIII

SIX weeks after Martin Embree’s triumphant election to the
governorship, the owner of The Guardian visited the Fenchester Trust
Company for the formality of renewing his note. He was referred to
President Robert Wanser. More walrus-like than ever, the president of
the institution looked this morning as if he might have eaten a fish
that did n’t quite agree with him. Jeremy stated his errand. Mr. Wanser
ruminated.

“Difficulties have arisen,” he presently announced. “What difficulties?”
 asked Jeremy, startled.

“The Trust Company does not see its way to renewing your note at this
time, Mr. Robson.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have not said that anything is wrong. It is merely a matter of
business policy. The loan is a heavy one.”

“It is well secured.”

“I do not question that.”

“The paper has turned the corner. We are making money to-day.”

“To-day--you are.”

“And we shall make more from now on.”

“A(c)h!” observed the banker with his buried guttural. “That is
prophecy.”

“Based on facts and figures. I can show them to you.”

“No need.”

Jeremy reflected, with an unpleasant sensation of being spied upon,
that probably the local banks knew as much of the financial side of his
business as he himself did; perhaps more.

“Do you consider The Guardian weaker security than it was?” he inquired.

“I have not said so,” replied the impassive walrus.

“You have n’t said anything. Do you intend to, or am I wasting my time?”

Jeremy arose, looking at the financier with a lively eye. This was not
at all what Wanser desired. He intended to read this young sprig of
journalism an impressive and costly lesson, after first reducing him to
a condition of affliction suitable for the punitive exercise. It annoyed
him to find that Jeremy did not reduce; on the contrary, that he was
likely to escape uninstructed in that discipline to which he, Wanser,
was leading by gradual stages. Forced to a shorter cut he said
oracularly:

“A newspaper’s best asset is its friends.”

The editor’s regard continued intent.

“Its heaviest liability is enemies.”

Still no response from the beneficiary of these pearls of wisdom.

“A newspaper is on the down-grade when it makes unfair and prejudiced
attacks upon--upon any class of people.”

“Talk plain, Mr. Wanser. You mean the Germans.”

The walrus, startled by this abruptness, began to bark. “That’s what
I mean. That’s exactly what I mean. You’ve got a grudge against the
Germans.”

“Not I.”

“You have. It proves itself. The Germans are the best citizens in the
State.”

Jeremy laughed not quite pleasantly. “I was betting myself you’d say
that next.”

“Say what? I don’t understand you.”

“Every German-American I’ve ever talked with tells me sooner or later
that the German-Americans are the solidest or the best or the most
representative citizens in the country. If not the most modest,” added
he maliciously.

Like most retorts inspired by annoyance it was a tactless speech. The
walrus bristled. “You see!” he growled. “There’s your prejudice.”

“No prejudice at all. The Germans considered as people are all very
well. I like them and respect them. But there are other people in
America, you know,--Americans, for instance.”

“We all know how you feel. We all know why you fought our school bill.”

“I did n’t fight it. I let up on it.”

“You let up when you were afraid to go on,” taunted the other.

Jeremy’s face flamed. “You’re a--” he began, and stopped short,
swallowing hard. “You’re right,” he said with quiet bitterness. “I was a
quitter. It serves me right that you should be the second man to tell me
so.”

“You quit too late.” The walrus was enjoying himself now.

“Evidently. All right, Mr. Wanser. The note will be paid when due. At
least I’m glad we understand each other.”

The walrus, briefly meditant upon this, did n’t like it. “Don’t be so
sure you understand it all,” was his parting word, by which he really
meant that he failed to understand Jeremy. There was a large leaven of
timidity in his imposing bulk.

To Andrew Galpin the interview as detailed by his boss proved no great
surprise. “Dutch Bob”--thus he irreverently dubbed Fenchester’s leading
banker--“is sore on two counts. You mussed up his bill. That’s the first
and worst. The other is our support of Mart Embree.”

“But Embree and Wanser worked for the bill together.”

“Ay-ah. That’s all right. Wanser is all for Embree when he’s a German
booster. He’s all against him when he’s a radical. It’s one of the
twists of politics.”

“Why are they so hot about this school business anyway? It almost
makes me believe that Wymett and Laurens are right in their Deutschtum
theory.”

“Don’t you go seeing ghosts, Boss,” advised the general manager,
good-humoredly.

“Then you don’t take any stock in the notion.”

“About the Germans? Oh, I don’t know. Let ’em play with their little
Dutch toys. I guess we’re a big enough country to absorb all the
sauerkraut and Wienerwursts they can put into our system. What’s the use
of being cranky about it? It only gets the paper in wrong.”

“We’re certainly in wrong with Wanser. And now we’re out. Got twenty
thousand dollars up your sleeve, Andy?”

“No. I’ve spent my week’s salary,” answered the other with a grin. “The
Drovers’ Bank would be my best guess.”

To the Drovers’ Bank went the owner of the Fenches-ter Guardian, a daily
with a rapidly rising circulation of eleven thousand, an increasing
advertising patronage, and a fair plant. He was courteously received by
the president of the institution, an old, glossy, and important looking
nonentity named Warrington. Mr. Warrington listened with close
attention, made some thoughtful figures on a blotter, and requested Mr.
Robson to return that afternoon when a positive answer would be given.
But Mr. Warrington thought--he was quite of the opinion--he confidently
believed--that there would be no difficulty.

“There’s one thing that worries me, Boss,” commented Andrew Galpin as
the pair sat absorbing coffee and pie into their systems at a five-cent,
time-saving lunch-counter near the office.

“Pass me the sugar--and the worry,” requested Jeremy.

“Why should Wanser close down just at this time?”

“Why not?”

“Well, safely secured loans of twenty thousand dollars aren’t the kind
of business a bank chucks to another bank.”

“Did n’t I indicate to you that his loyal German heart was sore?”

“Why was n’t it sore last summer, when the bill was up?”

“Do you think somebody’s been stirring him up to go after us?”

“More likely he’s got some reason to think we’re up against it.”

“Hoots! We were never in such good shape.”

“That’s our view. I’m wondering if, maybe, Bausch and his lot are
putting up some kind of a game.”

“What kind of a game can they be putting up?”

“I’d have to understand German to read their minds. Maybe they’ll stir
up the advertisers against us. Like Stockmuller.”

“Any local advertiser that thinks he can do business without The
Guardian,” stated the owner arrogantly, “is suffering from an aggravated
form of fool-in-the-head.”

“That’s good doctrine. If only you can make ’em believe it.”

“They believe it all right.”

“Say, Boss. Why not get Mart Embree’s view on it?”’

“Good idea.”

Jeremy went to the Governor-elect. “What did you expect?” asked that
acute commentator on men and events. “Can’t you understand that you
insulted every good German-American by attacking them on the point
where their pride is most involved, the superiority of their educational
system?”

“Allowing that, is this just a belated revenge on Wanser’s part?”

“No. It’s business.”

“To drop $1400 a year interest on a good note?”

“It would have cost the Trust Company more than that to carry you.”

“I don’t get the point, Martin.”

“Deutscher Club account. Emil Bausch’s account. Henry Vogt. Arndt &
Niebuhr. Stockmuller--Have I said enough?”

“They would have withdrawn? Are they as sore as that?”

“One of these days you’ll realize the truth of what I told you about
committing hara-kiri, Jem. There’s only one safe way with the Germans.
Let them alone and they’ll let you alone.”

“Oh! Will they! That shows how one-sidedly you look at it. They’ve begun
flooding the office already with their press-work for the winter Singing
Society festival.”

“Perfectly harmless. You certainly can’t see anything objectionable in
that.”

“No; I can’t,” admitted Jeremy.

“Run a lot of it, then. It costs nothing, and it will help square you
for the school bill break.”

Which Jeremy found good advice and resolved to follow. He said as much
and was approved as one coming to his senses after regrettable errancy.

“How much pull do you think the Deutscher Club crowd have with the
Drovers’ Bank?” asked Jeremy.

“Not so much. If you do have difficulty there, let me know. I could
probably fix you up in some of the out-of-town banks.”

The Drovers’ Bank made no difficulty. Mr. Warrington was most amenable
when Jeremy returned. This helped to reassure the borrower that no
financial plot threatened his newspaper. He would have felt less happy
had he known that the interval between his visits had been utilized by
Mr. Warrington to pay a call of consultation upon a certain florid and
self-important gentleman, no lover of The Guardian or its editor since
he had suffered indignities of print as “President Puff” from Jeremy’s
satiric and not always well-advised pen.

“Let him have it,” directed the public utilitarian. “Three months’
note.”

Montrose Clark smiled puffily upon Judge Selden Dana later at the club.

“I thought he would come around to us,” he stated. “What will you do
now?” asked the lawyer.

“Wait,” replied the magnate.

Which might have been regarded either as direction, threat, or
declaration of intent, and partook of the nature of all three.




CHAPTER IX

BUDDY HIGMAN, prosperous in a new blue-and-yellow mackinaw (Christmas),
a pair of fur mittens (New Year’s), and high snow-boots (accumulated
savings), entered the Fenchester Post-Office with the mien of one having
important business with the Government. Four dollars a week was now
Buddy’s princely stipend from The Guardian, for working before and after
school hours at a special job of clipping and sorting advertisements
from the press of the State, for purposes of comparison.

Occasionally Buddy brought in an item of news, with all the pride of
a puppy bringing in a mouse, and beat it out with two fingers on a
borrowed typewriter. Such of these contributions as got into print
were paid for extra. Thereby Buddy was laboriously building up a bank
account. It was young Mr. Higman’s intention to be, one day, Governor of
the State. But in his wilder and more untrammeled flights, he hoped
to be an editor like Mr. Robson. Buddy was an enthusiastic, even a
hiero-phantic worker at his job. He was worth all that The Guardian paid
him. Even had he not been, the Boss would have kept him on. For he was,
all unknowing, a link; decidedly a tenuous link, but the only permanent
and reliable one, between Jeremy and a foregone past.

At the stamp window Mr. Burton Higman, dealing with the United States
Government, produced a silver dollar and gave his order in a firm and
manly voice.

“Hullo, Buddy,” greeted the clerk. “Still got that girl in Yurrup, I
see.”

A fire sprang and spread in Mr. Higman’s face. “And the rest in
postal-cards,” he directed with dignity.

“You’re our best little customer,” continued the flippant clerk. (The
little customer murderously contemplated arranging with The Guardian,
later, to write an editorial about him and get him fired!) “Write to her
every day, don’t che?”

“Shuttup, y’ ole fool!” retorted the infuriate youth, stepping aside to
reckon up his purchase, lest it might be short.

“Yessir,” continued the blatant gossip, to the next comer. “He sure is
the ready letter-writer, only _an’_ original. Don’t see how he has time
to help you edit your paper, Mr. Robson.”

Mr. Robson! The shock diverted Buddy at the twenty-eighth count. He
looked up into the friendly face of the Boss.

He hastened to defend himself.

“I yain’t, either, Mr. Robson. ’Tain’t letters at all. They’re fer
noospapers.”

“Are they?” said his chief, walking out into the wintry air with him. “I
did n’t know we had so much foreign circulation, Buddy.”

“No, sir; we ain’t. Say, Boss,” he added after a pause, “we gained five
new ads on The Record this week, an’ they only got one that we did n’t.”

“Good business, Buddy.”

“An’ I had two sticks in the paper yesterday. Dje see it? Story of the
kid that fell through the ice.”

“You’ll be a reporter one of these days, son.”

“Oh, gee!” said Buddy ecstatically. Then, with resentment, “What’s the
good of school, anyway?”

“If you’re going to be a real newspaper man you’ll need all the
education you can get.”

“Yes, sir.” The aspiring neophyte sighed. “That’s what She says.”

There was but one “She” in the vocabulary of the exclusive and
worshiping Buddy. Her name was never pronounced in the conversations
on the subject between himself and his Boss. There was no need of being
more specific, for either of them.

“It’s good advice.”

Buddy marched along beside his employer, obviously wriggling upon
the hook of some pointed thought. Presently further reticence became
impossible.

“Mr. Robson!”

“Well?”

“Them stamps--”

“What would the blue pencil do to a sentence beginning that way, Buddy?”

“_Those_ stamps--it’s like I told the fresh guy at the window.”

“They’re for the circulation department?”

“No, sir. But they’re for circulation all right. I been sendin’ the
paper every day to Hamburg.”

Jeremy’s pulses quickened. “Your own idea, Buddy?”

“Nope. I’m sendin’ it to Her. It ’s Her idear. She reads it reg’lar.
She’s deeply int’rusted in my cay-reer.”

“Where did you get that? It doesn’t sound like Her.”

“It ain’t. Got it out of a book,” confessed the boy. “I write to Her,
too,” he added happily. “She ast me to.”

“What does she think of your work?” inquired the Boss gravely.

“I ain’t heard from Her since I began gettin’ my stuff in the paper. But
I guess She likes the paper all right. She tells me in most every letter
what a big thing it is to help make a noospaper.”

“Does She? What else does She say?”

“I dunno.” The boy lost himself in thought. “It’s just a little here an’
a little there. She never says much; not any one time. But you can see
She thinks a lot of the Business.”

“Now, you would n’t suppose that, would you?” said the artful Jeremy,
feeding his hunger for the mere, dear memory of her brought back and
made real by speech. “It must be because you told her you were going to
be a newspaper man.”

“That’s it. She thinks it’s like being a preacher, only more so. She
says you must n’t ever be mean or give away a friend or take advantage
of having a noospaper to write for. An’ She says you got to always write
what you honest-to-God think, because it’s yella to do the other thing.
I guess She would n’t stand for a fake, not for a second! I bet She’d
take the hide off’n some o’ them--o’ those Record guys. An’ She says
the hardest thing ’ll be some time when there’s somethin’ a fella oughta
write an’ that ’ll get him in wrong if he does write it, for him not to
lay down an’ quit on it. An’ She says never, never to be afraid o’ your
job, because that makes the job your boss an’ not you the job’s boss.
An’ She says unless a guy can’t trust himself nobuddy can trust him
an’ be safe, no matter how much they want to. I guess that’s about all
right! Ain’t it, Boss?”

“It’s about all right, Buddy,” said Jeremy with an effort. That final
bit of philosophy had stabbed.

After the presses had stopped and the offices had emptied, that evening,
the editor of The Guardian sat at his desk with the little photograph of
Marcia Ames before him. He looked into the frank and radiant face; into
the eyes that met the world and its perplexities so steadily, with so
pure and single-minded a challenge.

“You did n’t ask much, did you, my dear!” he said softly to the picture.
“You only asked that I should be straight and honest; not a shifter and
a coward. Well, it was too much. Buddy may do better. I’ll help him as
far as I can. That’s a promise, my dear.”

He heard the departing Buddy whistling outside. His footsteps approached
the door. Jeremy slipped a hand over the picture.

“Anythin’ more you want me for, Boss?” asked the boy, appearing in the
doorway.

“No, Buddy. Good-night.”

“‘Night.” He paused. “I dunno’s She would have wanted me to tell you
about the paper,” he said. “She never told me not to, though. I kinda
thought you’d wanta know. I guess we got a man-size job makin’ a paper
good enough for Her to read, ain’t we, Boss!”

“I guess we have,” said Jeremy steadily.

The door shut and he returned to his contemplation of the picture. “You
read me, my dear,” he said. “You were reading me all the time. You read
me in the Eli Wade story. And in the golf story. And perhaps in others I
did n’t realize. You knew I’d come eventually to do just such a wretched
crawl as I did on the German school bill. You knew that you never could
trust yourself to me. You’d seen me go back on myself. You knew that
a man who would go back on himself would go back on you when the test
came.” He mused bitterly. “As I would have done,” said Jeremy Robson.

No man ever pronounced upon himself a harsher judgment.




CHAPTER X


BOSS,” said Andrew Galpin.

He had come in and perched himself upon a corner of Jeremy’s desk,
swinging his long legs. A folded copy of that day’s Guardian served him
for a fan, which he plied languidly, for it was the early hot spell
of June, 1914. The regard with which he favored his chief was both
affectionate and quizzical.

“Well?” queried Jeremy.

“D’ you know we’re pretty near two years old?”

“That’s right, Andy. We are.”

“D’ you feel it?”

“Yes, and a couple of hundred years on top of it.”

“So bad as that! We’re some old for our age, I’ll admit. But I don’t see
any signs of senile decay, yet.”

“Oh, we can still stir our bones enough to get off the press on time.”

“What do you think of this feller’s paper, anyway, Boss?”

“What do _you?_”

“Pretty well satisfied, thank you. We’ve got fourteen thousand
circulation that you could n’t pry loose with a crow-bar.”

“Could n’t we? I’m not going to try.”

“Not going to? You _have_ tried. You’ve stepped on every cussed one of
their cussed toes, one time or another. Dam’ fi don’t think you’ve got
’em so they _like_ it.”

“Queer way they’ve got of showing it, then. Do you ever read the
editorial correspondence?”

“Oh, that’s all right!” The general manager waved such matters loftily
away. “They quit the paper, sore. Then they get over it and come back.
If they don’t, there’s plenty of others to take their places. Even the
Dutchers”--this being, at the time, Mr. Galpin’s term indicative of that
powerful and flourishing organization, the Deutscher Club--“have come
around.”

“Not all of them. Stockmuller is out still.”

“He’s a stiff-neck. He’s the only one.”

“Not the only advertiser. The Laundry Association have never got over
Wong Kee, the yellow peril. The Emporium takes as little space as
possible. And I don’t notice the P.-U. crowding any contracts on us,
Andy.”

“Verrall tells me they’re coming back. At least, they’re showing
flirtatious signs.”

“No! I wonder what kind of a bargain they’ll offer now.”

“You ought to curb that mean, suspicious nature of yours, Boss,”
 reproved Galpin solemnly. “Now, _I_ set it down to force of habit on the
P.-U.’s part. Something’s in the air. Therefore they begin to advertise.
It’s the cuttle-fish principle. Only they use printer’s ink.”

“What’s their little game?”

“Self-defense, I guess. The Governor is sharpening up his Corporation
Control Bill.”

“We’ll be for it. The P.-U. advertising won’t make any difference.
Montrose Clark ought to know that by this time. If he knows anything,”
 qualified Jeremy.

“Don’t worry about President Puff. He knows a lot of things he did n’t
know before The Guardian tackled the job of his education. One of ’em
is that the P.-U. is going to need just as much friendship and just as
little enmity as it can get when this bill comes up.”

“And Clark is going to smooth us down with his advertising, eh?”

Andy lifted up his voice in pertinent song:

               “There was a young man who said, ‘Why

               Can’t I look in my Ear with my Eye?

                        If I set my mind to it

                        I’m sure I could do it.

               You never can tell till you try.’

“There’s the P.-U. motto,” he added; “and a noble one it is. ‘You never
can tell till you try.’”

“Let ’em try somewhere else than in The Guardian.”

“Not so, Boss,” argued Galpin. “This bill is rough stuff. It’ll pretty
near wipe out the P.-U. They’re entitled to a yell, at least. Even
Verrall admits that. And what Verrall won’t swallow whole, when it comes
from Mart Embree, must be tough swallowing.”

“Verrall wants to make his advertising total as big as possible.”

“Being human--although an advertising manager--he does. Well, he’s got
no kick coming. Look at the clippings of your young friend and disciple,
Mr. Buddy Higman. The Record is nowhere. Respected Sir and Editor, as
your correspondents from the cheese district write; we’re making money
this year. Real, guaranteed money.”

“Enough to take up our note?”

“Why worry? The bank does n’t. Old Warrington purrs like a cat every
time he meets me. You can read in any witch-book that a banker purring
like a cat is a sure sign of prosperity.”

“What’s it in your scheme-hatching mind to do with all this prosperity,
Andy?”

“New press,” returned the general manager, who had been leading up to
this point.

Pro and con they argued it, the owner finally agreeing. “We really
owe it to the advertisers as well as the readers” had been Andy’s best
argument. “Look how they’ve stuck.”

“They’ve had to,” returned Jeremy grimly. “Half of ’em would have got
out at every bump if they had n’t been afraid.”

“Well, we’re solid with ’em now. Look what we did to ’em in April.
Hiked the rates a clean ten per cent all around. And did they peep?”

“They did not. They howled.”

“Force of habit again. They all came through, did n’t they? We’re making
it pay ’em.”

“We’re giving them all the return they’re entitled to,” agreed the
editor. “I wish I were as sure that we’re giving the reading public as
good.”

“Don’t hear many kicks, do you?”

“Lots. If I did n’t I’d _know_ we were rotten.”

“Ay-ah. That was a fool question of mine. But I mean, you can feel the
paper taking hold all the time, can’t you? We’re certainly putting it
over. We’ve made a Governor already. What do you expect? Want to elect a
President and Congress?”

“The Governor is one of my troubles, Andy.”

“Butting in?”

“You can’t call it that.”

“What can you call it?” demanded the downright Galpin.

“Well, boosting. Without him we would n’t be where we are.”

“Nor anywhere else,” added the other with emphasis. “Probably not. I
appreciate that. I’d _give_ him the paper, if he needed it, as far as
that goes. But as long as my name is on it, I want it to be my paper.”

“Well, ‘Smiling Mart’ isn’t trying to pry it away from you, is he?’

“Of course not. It’s hard to put into words. But I feel as if I--we--The
Guardian were being surrounded by a sort of political web.”

“The Governor being the spider?”

“No. It’s his web, in a way; but he is n’t spinning it. It’s being spun
for him and for us. All our readers identify us completely with his
policies. If I say anything editorially, it commits the Governor. People
take it for granted that we ‘re his mouthpiece. It is n’t fair to him or
to us.”

“Does he take advantage of it?”

“We--ell; I don’t know. He does n’t mean to. Every now and then,
though, something will come up where he wants us to do this or not to
do that--always some unimportant thing--because of its influence on more
important things that we ‘re both interested in.”

“As for instance?”

“Take all this boosting, press-agent stuff that comes along and that
Embree wants in,” replied Jeremy. “Sometimes it’s political. Sometimes
it’s personal. Sometimes it’s the German stuff that Wymett used to talk
about. I’ve got to admit that Embree’s view is always for the practical
good of the paper. By following his advice, we’ve held sulky advertisers
more than once. But I know this, I’m doing for him--and for the politics
of it--and for the paper itself, in a way, I guess--what I would n’t do
for any advertiser. And sometimes it’s been a matter of principles. Not
very important, maybe, but principles just the same. Compromise, Andy.”

“Life’s mostly compromise, I guess. There’s a little more of it in the
newspaper game than in other lines because the newspaper touches life at
more points than any other business.”

“I’ve always thought,” pursued Jeremy, “that when I came to own a
newspaper it would be independent if it was n’t anything else. Well,
look at The Guardian!”

“Ay-ah. I’m looking at it. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s ducking a little here, and dodging a little there, and trying to
be cautious about this issue and polite about that man, and so on. That
is n’t my notion of being independent.”

“What is? I guess we’re as cocky as any paper in the country. You can’t
tell all the people to go to hell all the time,” pointed out the general
manager, reasonably.

“I don’t want to. But I want to be able to if I do want to. Am I talking
like a fool, Andy?”

“I don’t know,” answered the other, troubled.

A silence fell between them. Galpin whittled a pencil to so careful and
delicate a point that it immediately broke. He repeated the experiment
with like result before he spoke.

“Say, Jem.”

The other looked up, attentive. Seldom, since their new relationship
had the older man employed any formula of address other than the
half-jocular, half-official, “Boss.”

“Say it, Andy.”

“Who are you making this paper for?”

Across the editor’s face passed a swift shock, as of thought surprised
and betrayed.

“Making it for?” he said slowly.

“Ay-ah. For yourself, I guess. Huh?”

“Yes.”

“And it don’t suit?”

“Not altogether.”

“Not good enough?”

“No.”

“Ay-ah. I see.” One of those extraordinary flashes of intuitive insight
which sometimes pass electrically between surcharged and kindred minds,
culminated in the general manager’s next question. “What does she think
of it?”

“Who?” The startled counter-question represented less than Jeremy’s
normal frankness.

Andy rose and stood above the other. “How should I know who? If I did
I’d know more about the paper.”

“You’re right.” For the moment Jeremy was as intuitive as his friend.
“You think it would have been more honest of me, as I’m making a paper
for some one else, to let you in on it.”

“What does she think of The Guardian?” persisted Andy.

Jeremy stared out into the gray and bleak spaces. “God knows,” he said.
“I’ve no way of finding out.” Andy turned and went to the door. “Forget
it,” he said. The tone was his sufficient apology.

*****

That night of June, 1914, two years after Marcia Ames’s lips had pressed
themselves to his cheek, and he had felt her sobbing breath on his face,
Jeremy went again to the bridge where they had stood. A barge filled
with young people passed the turn of the lake. A canoe bearing a boy
and a girl--how young they seemed to lonely Jeremy, and how
enviable!--floated beneath him, and their speech came up to him, dim,
tender, and murmurous. Then, sped by a poignant magic, the blended
voices of Marcia’s song were wafted to him across the waters:

                   “Who wins his love shall lose her,

                   Who loses her shall gain,

                   For still the spirit wooes her,

                   A soul without a stain,

                   And Memory still pursues her

                   With longings not in vain!”

He could hear in the distance the faint plash of the oars that drove the
boat of song. The fairy voices, fainter, sang:

                   “He loses her who gains her,

                   Who watches, day by day,

                   The dust of time...”

The words were blurred as the unseen boat passed behind some unseen
cape; then the music died on the breeze. Jeremy bent over the railing,
where Marcia’s hand had rested.

*****

Half a world away an obscure fanatic, unknown to the world and to-day
almost forgotten by it, was gloomily, lonelily, dreamily blending
those common, inexpensive, terrific chemicals whereby he was to plunge
civilization in carnage. The happy boats passed on. The happy voices
blended again and were silenced. The busy presses chronicled the events
of unsuspecting nations to little folk of souls yet untouched who,
sleeping, “rose up to buy and sell again.” Then the bomb of the dreamy
fanatic was flung, and in the force of that explosion, the wave of war,
which had hung crested and suspended, broke and whelmed the world in
such flood that the quicksands upon its edges spread even to far-away
Fenchester.


END OF PART II




PART III




CHAPTER I

STRICKEN, at the first, by the unimaginable vastness of the tragedy
which had befallen Europe, the State of Centralia quickly recovered,
and lifted up a thousand voices of acclaim. Germany was being splendidly
victorious. Nothing could stop the Kaiser’s perfected war-machine;
nothing stand against the valor and discipline of the field-gray
legions. Triumph was a matter of only a few months; perhaps only a few
weeks. France would be crushed; Russia humbled; England, the faithless
and foolhardy, penned in her island and slowly starved into submission.
Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles! The loyalest Imperial colony could
hardly have rejoiced more openly or fervently than did Centralia,
a sovereign State of the United States of America. Slow, still,
systematic, scientific propagation of Deutschtum throughout the years
now reaped its due reward.

Those there were in the State, and many, who revolted from the brutality
of Germany’s war-making. But what voice could they find in Centralia,
where politicians and press and pulpit were dominated either by the
influence or the fear of organized German sentiment? Let a man but speak
a word against Germany’s cause, and the anathema of Deutschtum descended
upon him. A highly practical anathema, too; directed to his business
affairs and even his social relations. The accusation of prejudice, of
Wall Street influence, of British sympathies lay against any who dared
question or criticize the “necessary rigor” of German methods. The rape
of Belgium was hardly more triumphant than the seduction of Centralia.

Most conspicuous of the few who braved the local power of Deutschtum was
Magnus Laurens. Less than a month after the declaration of war he
spoke at a Manufacturers’ Association convention dinner in Bellair,
the metropolis of the State. “America and the Future” was his topic. It
should have been a safe topic; safe and sane, and in the hands of a
less obstinately courageous partisan would have been. Indeed, for twenty
minutes, it was. Then the speaker, setting back his massive shoulders,
and with a significant deepening of his voice, challenged the sense of
justice of the gathering, in these words:

“What future can America hope for if the policies of nations are to be
dominated by the nation to whom the sacredest pledge is but a scrap of
paper when it conflicts with her blood-stained ambitions?”

Gordon Fliess, the head of the great Fliess Breweries, was on his
feet instantly. “Order!” he shouted. “The speaker is out of order, Mr.
Chairman.”

Echoes came from all parts of the banqueting hall, mingled with cries
of dissent. Laurens raised his great voice, and dominated the tumult. It
was a reckless speech; it was violent; it was, in parts, unfair. But it
raised a voice in Centralia that arraigned the State before a court of
honor for self-judgment; a voice too powerful to be silenced, too clear
to be ignored.

Yet, instantly, the silencers were at work. Their first attempt was
through the toastmaster who laid an arresting hand upon the speaker’s
arm, only to be shaken off with a violence which sufficiently warned
him. Shouts, hoots, hisses, and cat-calls failed to make any impression
on Laurens. Galvanized into action the reporters were taking down every
word. But there descended upon them an emergency committee hastily
constituted by Fliess, Mark Henkel, of the Henkel Casket Company, and
other reliable Germans who not only warned them against publishing the
proceedings, but also manned the telephones and issued their directions
through owners, advertising managers, and editors regarding the event.
Out of six dailies published in Bellair, only The Journal, already under
suspicion because of its independence, reported the one sensational and
interesting speech of the occasion. That single publication, however,
gave the matter currency. The German dailies took it up virulently. The
Journal was all but swamped with protests.

Political matters had, on the day when the Laurens speech was published,
brought Cassius Kimball, the managing editor and dominant spirit of The
Journal, to Fenchester to see Governor Embree, whose fortunes the paper
had early backed. After his call, the Governor sent for Robson. They had
not seen each other since war began. Martin Embree’s smile was happy as
that of a boy.

“Well, Jem,” was his greeting. “We’ve got him this time.”

“Who?”

“Magnus Laurens. Did n’t you see this morning’s Bellair Journal?”

“I’ve just been reading it.”

“That kills Laurens.”

“For what?”

“For everything and anything in this State.
Governor--Legislature--dogcatcher; he couldn’t get elected to anything,
if this is handled properly.”

“I’m giving his speech in full, in to-night’s paper.”

“That’s it! And a slashing editorial to follow tomorrow. Eh?”

“Slashing which way?”

“Why, into Laurens.”

“Not me,” declared Jeremy with more emphasis than grammar.

“You would n’t back him up!” cried Embree.

“Not in everything. There’s a good deal in that speech, though, that
needed to be said; that was _right_.”

“Jem, are you off your head?”

“Never felt saner in my life.”

“They always say that just before they begin to bite the paper off the
walls,” smiled the other. “Come, Jem! Here’s our chance to put Laurens
out of the game once and for all. Give me a column and I’ll do it
myself.”

“The chance ’ll have to wait.”

“Until when?”

“Until he is n’t as near right as he is on this.”

“Jem,” said the Governor suddenly growing grave, “why is it you’re
always pussy-footing when Laurens is in question?”

“I don’t like that word, Martin.”

“Word the question to suit yourself, then.”

“And I don’t like the question. It reminds me that the last time I
pussy-footed was on an issue that Laurens met fair and square.”

“And it licked him.”

“There are worse things than being licked.”

“That’s cant,” retorted Embree promptly. “When you’re licked
politically, you’re through. You can’t get anything done. Oh, I don’t
mean that I’m afraid to fight a losing fight when a big principle is
involved. My record shows that, plain enough. But this war is n’t our
fight.”

“What’s your view on the war, Mart?”

“It came in the nick of time.”

“For what?”

“For us. For our programme. We can put through pretty much anything we
want in the line of reform legislation. As long as the war continues,
the German vote will stand by us almost solidly, if only we play fair
with them. Even men like Wanser and Fliess and the big business crowd
that have always fought us are ready to swing into line, if we don’t
rush things too hard. Why, Jem,”--the keen, fine face lighted up with
enthusiasm,--“we can make Centralia the banner State of the country in
social reform and popular rule.”

“As to rushing things, is n’t this Corporation Control Bill a little
rough?”

“It’s meant to be. It’ll be toned down in conference. We made it pretty
stiff to throw a scare into the P.-U. crowd. There won’t be anything we
can’t do to those fellows, if the war keeps on long enough.”

“What do you really think about the invasion of Belgium, Martin?” asked
Jeremy abruptly.

“I don’t like it.”

“I hate the whole business.”

“But I don’t like war, anyway. And this is part of war. I’m going to
keep my hands off. Neutrality is our watchword, Jem. The President has
given it to us, and I guess in international affairs we can afford to
follow the President. Let Magnus Laurens and his gang do the fireworks.
They’ll only burn their fingers.”

“Belgium was neutral,” said Jeremy gloomily.

“Let Belgium alone and ’tend to Laurens.”

But this the editor of The Guardian would not do. He ignored the
Manufacturers’ Association banquet incident editorially. Publication of
the mere report of the Laurens speech, however, stirred up a volume of
local displeasure chiefly on the part of the Deutscher Club element, and
The Guardian received some pointed letters on the subject of neutrality.

“Neutrality,” commented Andrew Galpin thoughtfully to his chief. “That’s
good business for Mart Embree. He can preach neutrality and tickle the
Germans at the same time, for our kind of neutrality in Centralia is
sure hall-marked ‘Made-in-Germany.’ But how neutral are _we_ going to
be?”

“There’s no such thing as ‘how neutral.’”

“Oh, is n’t there! Look here, Boss; what’s practically every paper in
this State, on this war, except The Bellair Journal?”

“German. They’re afraid not to be.”

“Suppose a paper is really neutral; gives both sides an equal show.
What’ll it look like where all the rest are pro-German? What’d it look
like in Germany?”

“I get your point, Andy. It will seem to lean to the Allies by
contrast.”

“There you are! Well, what are we going to do?”

“Play fair.”

“Sure. But we can be cagey about it, can’t we?”

“To what extent?”

“Enough to live. I don’t want to see The Guardian mess up in a fight
that’s none of our fight and get done up so bad that we can’t help win
the fight that is our fight. Let England lick Germany. Our business
is to play the game here at home and lick the corporation crowd for
legislative control of the State. Don’t you think it’s going to be a
cinch, either, just because we’ve elected Mart Embree Governor!”

“Expediency is a queer text for you, Andy.”

“I’m all for expediency as against idiocy.”

“What about butting into the Wade riot?”

“That was for a friend. War, right there under my nose. This other thing
is four thousand miles away. And I hope it stays there!”

“Andy,” propounded his chief, “what do you really think of the
Governor?”

“‘Smiling Mart’?”

“Is that an answer?”

“Ay-ah. I always wonder about one thing. If you brushed that smile off
quick, what ’d be under it?”

“He asked me to sit in his box at the convention meeting of the
Federated German Societies.”

“Oh, you got an invitation from the Societies, did you?”

“Yes. Issued by Bausch as secretary.”

“I bet he spit in the ink before he signed it. Going?”

“What do you think?”

“Sure.”

“Expediency again, eh?”

“Ay-ah. There’s no principle in turning down an invitation, even if it
_will_ do us some good!”

“All right, Andy. I’ll go,” laughed the editor.

He sat in the Governor’s box at the meeting. There was the same
pan-Germanic atmosphere that there had been two years before, but
magnified. The Imperial banners were more flamboyant, more triumphant.
The verve and swing of “Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles,” was
more martial; it defied the world. The speeches were more fiery,
more challenging, more instinct with the fierce pride of a dominant
nationalism; and again Jeremy felt resentfully, in the references to the
adoptive republic, that tone of bland and intolerable condescension to a
lesser people.

The Governor’s box was that which Magnus Laurens had occupied in 1912.
Sitting well back in it, Jeremy faced the high balcony. In the far
corner a fat, steamy German in a fancy waistcoat roared out “Hochs!” of
assent and applause to the speakers. But before Jeremy’s wistful vision
he dissolved, giving place to another figure; a figure slender, gallant,
boyish, erect. Martin Embree’s touch on his knee recalled Jeremy to
realities.

“Wake up, Jem! What ghosts are you seeing?”

“None. Nothing,” muttered Jeremy, and stood while the fervid gathering
sang thunderously “Die Wacht am Rhein.”




CHAPTER II

STEP by step The Guardian followed the war through its pregnant early
days. In presentation of the news, both Jeremy and Galpin strove to be
conscientiously neutral. For Galpin, this was simple enough. It accorded
with his creed, that the news should stand of itself and for itself and
let the people judge. Jeremy took it harder. There were times when,
in the security of his den, he fingered his pencil with a fierce and
mounting resentment which cried for expression toward Germany’s savagery
and terrorism. On the other hand, he knew that to incite prejudices,
wrath, and hatred within America, and particularly within so divided a
State as his own, was to thrust the nation nearer to that hell’s caldron
wherein Europe agonized. The President had prescribed neutrality. That,
Jeremy recognized, was the part of statesmanship. He appeased his
own soul with the argument that it was equally the part of honorable
journalism.

If he had thought by editorial silence to satisfy or even conciliate the
propagandists of Deutschtum in the State, he was soon undeceived. The
process of the absorption of Centralia by the German-Americans was
swiftly progressing, and as a newspaper of influence, The Guardian came
within the purview of their programme. Daily the mail deposited upon his
desk a swelling flood of proselytizing literature; pamphlets, reprints,
letters to the editor from writers whom he had never heard of (and
who in many cases had no existence) as well as from his own clientèle,
excerpts from the German press, editorials from that great and malign
force in American journalism who, already secretly plotting with
Germany, was playing the game of Teutonic diplomacy by inciting fear and
distrust of Japan and shouting for war upon and annexation of Mexico. He
could not have published one twentieth of them. He did not publish one
one-hundredth of them. Hardly a day passed without his being stopped
on the street by some sorrowful or accusing or indignant subscriber
who wished to know why The Guardian had not reproduced Pastor Klink’s
powerful editorial on “The Crusader Spirit of Germany,” or how it
happened that The Record printed Mr. Woeker’s letter on Belgian
provocations while The Guardian had n’t a word of it. Suspicion
established itself in the editor’s mind that some person or persons were
making daily and scientific analysis of his newspaper for the purpose
of forcing propaganda upon it by the power of protest. He suspected, and
with reason, the Deutscher Club.

The matter of news soon became an irritant to the apostles of
Deutschtum. To the layman, news is simple fact, the product of the
world’s activities, finished and ready for the press. To the expert
journalist news is a theme and the printed page his instrument whereon
he may render that theme by an infinite variety of inflections and with
infinitely varying effect upon his public. Headlines and sub-heads alone
may vitally alter the whole purport of an article not otherwise garbled.
So long as Germany’s record was one of consistent victories, the course
of the Centralia newspapers was clearly marked. They had but to print
the cables with captions appropriate to the facts, in order to please
their self-appointed masters, the German-American public. But Russia
now made her sensational advance. Victory in the West was threatened by
disaster in the East. Much ingenious and painful juggling of cable news
was imposed upon the harassed journalistic fraternity of Centralia by
this unfortunate development. Relegating the Russian campaign to nooks
and corners of the inner pages and qualifying it by indeterminate or
sometimes satiric headlines, was the most generally approved method. The
Guardian, however, printed the news. It printed it straight, for what it
was worth, and under appropriate captions. Somewhat to Jeremy’s surprise
and more to his relief, the Governor had no criticism to make of this
course.

“So long as you stick to facts, we’ve got a good defense,” was his view.
“They’ll kick. Of course they’ll kick. Let ’em. In time they’ll come
to see that they’re really kicking against the facts, not against The
Guardian. Just now our German friends are pretty excited and touchy and
nervous. If you could give ’em a little more show on the editorial
page, while this Russian business is on, it’d help.”

Kick the German-Americans certainly did, by pen and Voice. No less a
person than Robert Wanser, who had maintained a mere bowing acquaintance
with Jeremy since the Cultural Language Bill episode, took it upon
himself to voice a protest to General Manager Galpin.

“Why print this Russian claptrap at all?” he asked.

“All the papers are carrying it,” answered Galpin.

“Not so much of it, and not so prominently as The Guardian.”

“We’re giving it what it’s worth as news, just as we give the German
advances in the West.”

“Everybody knows that it isn’t news. It is British fabrications, put on
the tables to fool--er--influenceable newspapers.”

“Influenceable, eh?” said Galpin, annoyed. “Everybody knows, do they?
You prove it to us, and we’ll print it, all right.”

“You are making a mistake,” pronounced the banker severely. “For a
newspaper to take up the British side is very suspicious.”

“Bunk! The Guardian’s been square, and you know it. But we’re not going
to stand for being censored by a lot of organized letter-writers.”

“A(c)h, censored!” The banker’s guttural almost emerged upon the
troubled surface of speech. “The censoring is inside your editorial
office, if anywhere. You refuse to publish our letters--”

“‘Our’? Have you been writing us letters?”

“I have sent you letters.” Mr. Wanser’s face became red.

“Funny! I don’t recall any. Sign ’em?”

“They were signed,” returned the other, with an effort at loftiness.

“With what name?” demanded Galpin bluntly.

“I am not here to be cross-examined by you.”

“You started this. And now you want to duck it. Nothing doing! You let
out what we’ve suspected; that a lot of those letters are machine-made,
and sent in signed with fake names or with real names stuck on as a
blind for some committee. That don’t go, in The Guardian. We’ve had too
much stuff put over on us.”

The banker’s dignity dissolved in wrath. “Don’t you get fresh with me,
young man. I guess you and your boss, too, are going to learn something
one of these days! Going out of your way to insult the best citizens in
the State every time your dirty, pro-English paper--”

“Oh, you make me sick!” said Galpin, and marched away, leaving Wanser
brandishing a denunciatory fist at nothing.

The split between the Germans and The Guardian imperceptibly widened, as
time went on, through minor incidents, arguments, and abortive attempts
at influence. Seizing upon its opportunity, The Record accepted the
whole programme of local German censorship, published nothing that could
possibly offend, trimmed its news to the prejudices of the dominant
element, and by these methods cut in upon its rival’s local circulation.
Verrall, however, reported that as yet there was nothing to worry about,
while at the same time earnestly advocating an inoffensive foreign news
policy for The Guardian. So 1914 passed into 1915, and the paper held
its own.

On a mid-April day of 1915 there appeared upon an inner page of The
Guardian, an item of such overwhelming importance, that when the editor
and owner read it, all other news of the day receded and blurred into a
dull, colorless mist of insignificance. The article stated briefly that
Miss Marcia Ames, cousin of Miss Letitia Pritchard, of 11 Montgomery
Street, who was well known to Fenchester society, not only for her
charm and beauty, but also as being the only lady intercollegiate
golf-player in the country, had left Berne, whither she had gone after
the breaking-out of the war, and was visiting friends in Copenhagen.
Her many and admiring friends would be glad to learn, etc., etc., in
the best society-reportorial formula. After thoroughly absorbing that
paragraph into his inmost being, Jeremy sent for Buddy Higman, who had
now taken on the additional duty of marking each day’s paper, from the
assignment book, article by article, with the name of the writer of
each.

“Buddy,” said the editor, “whose is the Ames story?”

This being an official query, Buddy made pretense of consulting his
marked file. “Higman, sir.”

“Oh! You wrote it? Did you have a letter?”

“Yes, sir. But I did n’t write it from that. I would n’t make a story
out of a letter from Her. That’s personal,” said Buddy, proud in his
rigid sense of ethics.

“Then where did you get it?”

“I figured that like as not Miss Pritchard would get one by the same
mail. So I went an’ ast her.”

“And she had?”

“Yes, sir. I told her I was there for The Guardian an’ was there
anything she could give out. An’ she gimme the story.”

“Buddy, if you don’t look out you’re going to be a real newspaper man
one of these days!”

“I wisht I was one now,” returned the boy wistfully. “Do you? What would
you do?”

“I dunno, exactly. Somethin’.”

“You’d need a more definite policy than that, son, if you were in the
bad fix of owning a newspaper.”

“I’d do somethin’,” persisted the boy. “I’d soak the Germans. Say, Boss,
how old do you have to be to get into the National Guard?”

“A good deal older than you are. Why all this martial ardor, Buddy?”

“That’s what She’d do, if She was a man.”

“Did the letter say so?”

“Yes. Can a feller--is it ever all right for a feller to show a lady’s
letter?”

Wondering again as he had wondered before whence this freckled scrub of
a boy had derived his instincts of the gentleman born and bred, Jeremy
answered gravely: “It might be. That’s for you to decide, Buddy.”

“I kinda guess She’d like for you to see this.” He dug out of his pocket
a crumpled sheet, covered with the strong, straight, beautiful script of
Marcia. “Read there, Boss.” He indicated an inner page.

“...or later it must come,” the letter ran. “As soon as you are old
enough you must learn to be a soldier. Every one in the world who can,
must learn to be a soldier. I cannot tell you, Buddy, of the terrible
thing that German national ambition is; how it reaches out into every
nation to make that nation its tool; how it aims to overrun the world
and make it one vast Germany. You will be old enough soon to see what
it is doing in your own little city, so far away. Perhaps you do not
comprehend. Perhaps you will not understand even what I am writing; but
you may find some one on your paper who will know and will explain.”

“I think, perhaps, I was meant to see this, Buddy,” interjected Jeremy.

“But I guess I know what She was drivin’ at all right,” replied the boy.

“How can America be so blind!” Jeremy read on. “How can its newspapers
be so blind! The last numbers of The Guardian that I saw, no word of
arousing the people to a sense of what all this means. Oh, Buddy, Buddy!
If you were only a man and had a newspaper of your own! I have written
your aunt about the books and...”

The bottom of the page terminated the reading. Jeremy, with his lips
set straight and hard, handed back the sheet. The boy faced him with a
candid eye.

“Boss, you’re a man,” he said.

“Am I?” said Jeremy, more to himself than in reply. “And you got a
noospaper of your own.”

“Not of my own, wholly.”

“Ain’t it?” cried Buddy, amazed. “Who’s in on it?”

“The people who read it, and believe in it. It’s partly theirs. The men
I work with to help keep politics straight and fair. I have to think of
them.”

Buddy sighed. “It ain’t as big a cinch as it looks, ownin’ a paper, is
it!”

“Not these days, son.”

“Anyway, I guess She knows,” asseverated the stout little loyalist.
“She’s lived there an’ she oughta know. What She says goes, with me.”

The clear single-mindedness of a boy! How the editor of The Guardian,
feeling a thousand years old, envied his lowliest assistant! How the
unstilled ache for Marcia woke and throbbed again at her words! She had
begged him not wholly to forget her. Had it been a spell laid upon him
it could have been no more compelling. He wondered whether, twenty years
hence, her influence would have become less vital, less intimate upon
him, and, wondering, knew that it would not.

He went home deviously by way of Montgomery Street. The early shoots
had lanced their way into the sunshine of the Pritchard garden, and Miss
Letitia was making her rounds, inspecting for the winter-killed amongst
the tenderer of her shrubbery. Jeremy leaned upon the fence saying
nothing. There were reasons why he felt hesitant about approaching Miss
Pritchard. In his campaign against the tax-dodgers he had fallen foul of
old Madam Taylor, one of her particular friends.

Shortly after the publication, Miss Pritchard, meeting Jeremy at her own
front gate as he was about to enter, had presented the danger signal of
two high-colored spots upon the cheek-curves, and a pair of specially
bright eyes; also the theorem, for his acceptance, that a newspaper
ought to be in better business than attacking and abusing lone and
defenseless women. Declining to accept this theorem without debate,
Jeremy was informed that Miss Pritchard would disdain thenceforth to
harbor The Guardian upon her premises. Interpreting this to mean that
the editor of that fallen sheet would be equally unwelcome, the caller
had departed, divided between wrath and melancholy. Up to that time the
Pritchard house had been one of the few ports of call in his busy but
rather lonely life. Now, another of those gossamer links with Marcia
Ames was severed. Miss Pritchard soon came to regret her severity, too;
for the steadfast, unspoken, hopeless devotion of the boy--he was still
only that to her--to the memory of her golden girl, had bloomed for her
like one of the flowers in her old maid’s garden.

Now, seeing the lover, forlorn and mute, outside what was once his
paradise, she gave way to compunction. But not wholly. There was a sting
in her first words.

“Are you reckoning up taxes on my place, Mr. Jeremy?”

“That’s been done long ago,” he said uncompromisingly.

“When are you going to print it?”

“As soon as you try to dodge ’em.”

He looked very tired, and his voice had lost something of the buoyant
quality of youth which she had always associated with him. A different
note crept into her own when she spoke again.

“I had a long letter from Marcia to-day.”

“Is she well?” The tone was politely formal, but she saw the color rise
in his face and marked the pathetic eagerness in his eyes.

“She’s the same Marcia Ames. Even to the name.”

He caught at the opportunity. “She’s not married yet?”

“No. Her fiancé is fighting. Somewhere in the remote colonies, I
believe.”

“Fiancé?”

“Surely you knew that she was engaged; a young cousin of her
stepfather’s. It was an affair of years.”

“Not when she was here,” Jeremy blurted.

Her surprised regard challenged him. “You seem very certain,” she
observed.

Jeremy recovered himself. “I had heard rumors, but nothing formal,” he
said. “I thought perhaps you would have told me when it was announced.”

“I assumed that you knew.”

What Miss Pritchard meant was, “I assumed that she would have told you.”
 She perceived that there were depths in this affair of which she knew
little or nothing.

“German betrothals are curious and formal things in her class,”
 continued the old maid. “When she came here, to ‘see America first,’
I believe it was understood that nothing was to be settled until
her return. She went back, and the formalities were arranged. At the
outbreak of war her fiancé was somewhere in Africa and, I believe, is
still there.”

“I see,” said Jeremy dully.

“Marcia still sees The Guardian.” The spirit of romance in the spinster
heart _would_ force the words.

“I know. And that helps. Good-bye and thank you.”

“Come to see me and let’s be friends again,” said the warm-hearted lady.

Most of that night Jeremy spent on the tramp, thinking of The Guardian
in terms of Marcia’s letter; haggardly struggling to harmonize
cross-interests, cross-purposes, cross-loyalties. Out of the struggle
emerged one clear resolve. What next the progress of the war should
produce that intimately touched his conscience, should be the signal,
the release. Upon that The Guardian should speak its owner’s mind though
damnation follow.

*****

Three weeks later the Lusitania was sunk.




CHAPTER III

LIKE a portent of stern events to come, The Guardian’s Lusitania
editorial laid hold on the collective mind of Fenchester. It was a hand
set against every man’s breast, bidding him stop as he went about his
occupations, and summon his own soul to ponder what a German war might
mean. “The Black Flag,” Jeremy had captioned it. Simple and grim words
were its medium, and the burden of its charge was plain murder.

The first effect was that of any profound and pervasive shock; the
community lay quiet, collecting and rallying its forces. Until now, no
newspaper in the State of Centralia had dared lift voice against
the cumulative outrages of the conquerors, fearful as all were of the
coordinated forces of German sentiment, ready and under arms for the
call. To what the initial outbreak might spread, no man could foretell.
It was not so much a high explosive as a fire-bomb that The Guardian had
cast.

The German press ravened. The dailies howled for the blood of the
dastardly and treacherous Robson. They called upon the authorities to
suppress The Guardian, without troubling to specify upon what ground.
They summoned the Governor to cut loose from a supporter so violent, so
vicious, so filled with the spirit of hatred and contention. The German
religious press backed up the attack, and even improved upon it.
It declared The Guardian and its owner enemies to an all-wise,
all-beneficent, and all-German Gott, and shrieked inquisitorially for a
holy ban upon it. All of which, combined, failed to keep Jeremy awake o’
nights. Indeed, it had quite the reverse effect. For the first time
in months he fell asleep at peace with his own soul, and awoke with
untainted, new-found courage to face whatever the day might bring.

One day brought Cassius Kimball, of The Bellair Journal. He was a slow,
cautious, weary, high-minded, and plucky man of forty-five who looked
sixty behind his lines and his glasses, and he eyed Jeremy, his devoted
admirer, with a benign but puzzled expression as he sat in the office
spare chair.

“I wish I’d said it first,” was his opening remark.

“I wish you had,” returned Jeremy, quite honestly.

“I never say anything first. That’s why I’m really not much good.”

Jeremy laughed. From the most independent and battle-scarred veteran of
Middle Western journalism, this was funny.

“It’s a fact, though,” continued the tired voice. “I always think too
slow. What are you going to do next?”

“Next?”

“About the Lusitania issue. You’ve started it in Centralia. Nothing
can put out that fire. It may die down and only smoulder. But the embers
will be there. And nobody can tell when they’ll reach a powder magazine.
Have you seen the recent Eastern papers?”

“Some of them.”

“A lot of them are yelling for war. It’s going to be put up to the
President pretty stiff. What are you going to do about that?”

The gravity of the tone, almost amounting to deference, made Jeremy
tingle. Here was the greatest journalistic power in Centralia, a man
whose clarity and courage of spirit had won for him an almost hierarchic
ascendency in his profession, ascribing such importance to the course
of The Guardian that he had taken the four-hour journey from Bellair to
consult its owner. To do Jeremy justice, his pride was for the paper,
semi-impersonal, rather than for himself. To the question he had no
ready answer.

“I had n’t thought it out yet. What’s your idea?” Kimball took off
his glasses and wiped them carefully. His eyes, without them, seemed
squinted and anxious. He drummed on the desk a moment before replying.

“There’s a man down in Washington,” he said in his gentle, reasonable
voice, “with a hard job on his hands. He has a lot of decisions to make
every day. We newspaper men have the same kind of decisions, but where
ours affect a few thousands, his affect a hundred millions. From now on
he’s going to have bigger decisions put up to him. He can lift his hand
and there’ll be war to-morrow, and six months from to-morrow there’ll
be thousands of us back home here in mourning. It’s a hard decision, Mr.
Robson. You and I did our best to beat the President for election.
We’ve differed from him in many things. But this is n’t politics. It’s
something else now. And, knowing what he’s got to face, I don’t feel
exactly like yelling in the President’s ears.” He resumed his glasses.
“Seen the Governor since your editorial?”

“No. He’s up at his home in Spencerville.”

“It’s going to be put up to him pretty hard, too. Your outbreak is
responsible.”

“How?”

“The German legislative outfit in Bellair,” said Kimball, who had an
uncanny knack of knowing things before they were ready to be known, “is
cooking up a bill to offset your editorial. They intend to put the State
on record. The bill will call on the President and Congress to declare
that any American sailing on a ship of a belligerent nation forfeits all
right to the protection of his own country.”

“What will The Journal do about that?”

“Fight it.”

“Can we beat it?”

“No. But the Governor can.”

“Will he?”

“Ah! What do you think? You’re closer to him than any one else.”

Jeremy shook his head. “Not on the war. I don’t even know what he’s
thinking, most of the time. Your paper has more influence with him
than The Guardian. If I could think of Martin Embree as being afraid of
anybody, I’d say he was a little afraid of The Journal.”

“Of course, he doesn’t want to lose us,” answered Kimball reflectively.
“He can’t afford to lose us. But there isn’t much danger of that.” He
rose. “I’ll send you a word before the bill is ready. They intend to
spring it suddenly.”

Jeremy thanked him, and after he had left, sat down to think out the
Governor’s situation. He could appreciate its perplexities. He
could foresee that Embree would blame him for stirring up dissension
unnecessarily, when he might have held his peace. Therefore he was
prepared for a difficult interview when, on the Governor’s return, he
was invited to lunch with him. But “Smiling Mart’s” smile was as open
and friendly as ever.

“You dipped your pen in earthquake and eclipse that time, my boy,” he
observed.

“I had to speak out or blow up, Martin.”

“Therefore you did both. Up in the Northern Tier you’re not precisely
popular.”

“No. The circulation reports show that. We’re getting two or three dozen
stop-the-paper orders from there per day.”

“I’ve done my best for you, there. But I can’t hold the more rabid
elements. There’s one saving grace, though.”

“That’s--?”

“You’ve gone no further than criticism. You didn’t even hint at war.”

“And I’m not going to. Not on this issue.”

Martin Embree drew a long, slow, luxurious breath. “Thank God for that!
At least they can’t identify us with the war-howlers in the East.”

Jeremy passed the “us.”

“What’s your view of the Lusitania sinking, Martin?”

“It’s damnable. But it’s war.”

“German war. They’re holding jollifications over it here. There’s to be
one to-night at the Deutscher Club.”

“Not a formal thing?” cried the Governor.

“Bausch and Henry Vogt, the florist, are engineering it, I understand.
It is n’t exactly a club affair.”

“Ah! That’s not so bad. You’re not going to print anything about it?”

“I’d print their remarks about The Guardian if I could get ’em,”
 grinned Jeremy. “They’d be spicy. But of course they won’t admit
reporters.”

“What goes on at a private dinner is nobody’s business,” said the
relieved official. “So you don’t need to stir up any more trouble for
yourself on that score. Some of the smaller German organizations have
been passing resolutions about The Guardian. That will cut into your
circulation, won’t it?”

“To some extent. But we’re holding up.”

“Just keep your head, Jem, and we’ll be all right,” advised the Governor
anxiously. “Don’t forget that we’ve got measures to put through here
at home more important than a war four thousand miles away. Harvey
Rappelje, of the Economics Department of the University, is working on
the Corporation Control Bill now. I’m going to have him talk it over
with you when it’s ready.”

“Glad to see him. Speaking of bills, Martin, what do you know of a
bill drawn by a bunch of Bellair Germans, to keep Americans off British
passenger ships?”

“Nothing. And I don’t want to until I have to.”

“That’ll be soon,” prophesied Jeremy. “I’m going to fight that.”

“I don’t know about that,” doubted the other. “There are two sides to
all these questions, remember.”

“There are two sides to the war. Admitted. But there’s only one side to
Americanism. And this is a question of American rights.”

“But is it quite fair to our Cause, to endanger it now for an issue that
you are n’t called on to meet?”

“If our cause isn’t American, then The Guardian is going to quit it,”
 retorted Jeremy heatedly. “What’s more, Martin, if I ever had to suspect
that when the issue comes you would n’t be for America against--”

“Stop right there!” the other adjured him, laughing. “When you hear me
speak an un-American word or see me do an un-American act, it will be
time enough to worry. But in the business now on hand we need those
German votes, and I’ll do just as much to hold them as you can to drive
them away.”

On his return trip to the office, Jeremy encountered Eli Wade, the Boot
& Shoe Surgeon, and Nick Milliken. Wade shook hands with him, and looked
at his feet.

“You’re standing solid now, Mr. Robson,” he said. “I went on my knees
and thanked God when I read your editorial.”

“Not me,” put in Milliken. “That ain’t my God. I don’t worship Mars.”

“Don’t heed him, Mr. Robson. He’ll fight, too, when the time comes.”

“In a capitalistic war? Do I look as soft a mark as that!” retorted the
Socialist disdainfully.

“In an American war,” said Eli Wade.

“Don’t you think it! Nine tenths of the people are dead against war.
There’s a bill coming up this session that’ll tell the war-birds where
they get off.”

“Where did you learn about it?” asked Jeremy.

“The Party is going to back it. It’ll carry without any trouble. The
yellow-bellies won’t dare kick for fear of the German vote.”

“Then they might as well raise the German flag over the Capitol,”
 declared the Boot & Shoe Surgeon fiercely.

“German nothing! We’ll have the red flag of brotherhood there yet, Eli.”

Considerations of policy delayed the presentation of the bill. When it
was offered, Jeremy put it on record all over the State, in an editorial
of protest, dubbing it the “Surrender Bill.” But no leader could
be found in the Legislature who dared back this bold course. German
intimidation had done its work too well. The most that the opponents
of the bill ventured was to obstruct its passage by parliamentary
obstacles. Even that much brought down upon the offender the threats
of an organized Deutschtum. But the matter bumped and dawdled along the
legislative road all that spring and summer before the bill passed to a
final reading. Jeremy published his last editorial on the subject “Hands
Off the President,” solemnly warning the Legislature against interfering
in international matters of which they could know little or nothing. The
Record replied with a scathing “leader” denouncing The Guardian, under
the caption “An Insult to Our State,” the purport of which was that
Centralia possessed the patriotism, statesmanship, and wisdom embodied
in its Legislature to lay out the course for the ship of state through
the most perilous waters. It was the kind of claptrap which rallies
pseudo-patriotism and emboldens vacillating politicians.

The bill passed in the fall by a ratio of two to one. Deutschtum
rejoiced exuberantly.

Jeremy hurried to the Executive Mansion. “Governor, are you going to
veto that bill?”

“Is this for publication, Mr. Editor?” smiled the Governor.

“Yes.”

“Then I will say that the matter is still under advisement.”

“It’s a rank surrender, Martin.”

“It’s a silly bill, Jem. But where’s the harm? Let ’em blow off
steam.”

“Then you won’t veto it?”

“I certainly shall not. Does The Guardian propose to scarify me?”

“My Lord, Martin! A matter as serious as this--I don’t see how you can
take it so lightly.”

“Philosophy, my boy. With our Corporation Bill coming on soon I’m
certainly not going to compromise its chances by flying in the face of
the whole German-American vote.”

“But on a question of national honor--”

“National flapdoodle! Our national honor is safe enough as long as we
keep our heads. Will you see Rappelje to-morrow about the Corporation
Control Bill?”

“Yes. To-morrow afternoon.”

The lean and dry authority on economics, an ardent apostle of Embree’s
policies and his chief adviser on all corporation matters, spent an
hour in the editorial den of The Guardian. All points of the bill were
carefully discussed. Jeremy committed his unqualified editorial support
to it.

“Will you forward it to Mr. Kimball, of The Bellair Journal?” asked the
professor.

“Yes, if you wish.”

“We can be sure of his aid?”

“Probably. Though he will be very sore on Governor Embree if the
‘Surrender Bill’ is signed.”

“That has no bearing whatsoever upon this measure.”

“Only as a matter of political barter and trade. What do you think of
the ‘Surrender Bill’ yourself, Professor Rappelje?”

“I was requested to come here to discuss the Corporation Control Act,”
 returned the economist austerely.

“Another dodger!” thought Jem disgustedly, as he bade his visitor a
somewhat curt good-day.

Such advisement as Governor Embree bestowed upon the “Surrender Bill”
 was brief. Two days after its passage he signed it without comment.
Jeremy’s editorial on the final step in the enactment was dignified and
regretful, but carefully guarded against offense. It indicated plainly
that there would be no split between The Guardian and the Governor.

On the morning following the signature, as Jeremy was at his desk,
Andrew Galpin burst in upon him, his face vivid with emotions in which
unholy glee, such as might be evoked by some Satanic jest, seemed to
predominate.

“Come out here!” he gasped.

“What’s the matter?” demanded his Boss, struggling against a powerful
grip.

“Come out. I can’t tell it. You’ve got to see it.”

Galpin hurried him downstairs and out upon the sidewalk. The street
was full of people with faces turned upward and to the northeast where
Capitol Hill reared its height. The typical characteristic of the faces
was a staringly incredulous eye and a fallen jaw. Jeremy followed the
line of vision to the dome wherefrom projected the State’s official
flagstaff.

In place of the Stars and Stripes there blew, stiff in the brisk wind,
the banner of Imperial Germany.




CHAPTER IV

PHENOMENA do not occur upon legislative flag-staffs without due
process. The astonishing manifestation of a sardonic intent above the
unconscious lawmakers of Centralia was not the fruit of magic, black or
white, but of a simple and easy substitution. The legitimate ornament
of the staff was lowered each evening into a box, where it lay, still
attached to its halyards, and was raised therefrom in the morning by an
assistant janitor who, operating the rope from within the dome, never
saw the flag as it mounted to the peak. What more easy, since the dome
was always open and unguarded, than for some demoniac-souled satirist
to ascend to the repository and substitute an alien banner, always
supposing him able to lay possessive hands upon such a thing? Since
the Lusitania rejoicings, German flags had blossomed broadcast in the
streets of Fenchester, and each new submarine success had brought
them forth afresh. As a matter of fact, the satirical substituter had
borrowed the Deutscher Club’s proud insignium.

How would the German-Americans take it? That was the first question in
the minds of Jeremy Robson and Andrew Galpin alike. When the first shock
of amazement wore off, it began to appear that they were taking it with
a certain gusto. A joke? Oh, certainly! But a joke with a deserved sting
in it for the “Know-Nothings,” the jingo-patriots who could admit
no other nationality than their own to any rightful say in American
affairs. Privately they were much inclined to chuckle. The forehanded
among them hastened forth with cameras to perpetuate the spicy relish
of their flag exalted in the high place of the State. While the click
of shutters was at its height, the flag came down. Somebody in the Main
Square shouted “Hoch der Kaiser!” and there was a burst of laughter and
applause.

But for that, casual and insignificant as it was, Jeremy Robson might
have treated the matter tactfully, or jocularly, as did The Record. But
that heavy, Teutonic mirth roused a dogged wrath within him. What he
composed for a “box” on that evening’s editorial page was unpleasant
writing and extremely unpleasant reading. There were but few sentences,
but they stung. And that which rankled was the suggestion that the
insult to the State and the Nation was fittingly typified in the flag
from that organization which had jubilated in wine and song over the
murder of American women and children aboard the Lusitania.

Before the editorial had been out two hours there were rumors of a
mob that was to be raised against The Guardian. Jeremy returned to
the office. So did Galpin; also Verrall, white with consternation and
chagrin over the reckless challenge of the editorial which could not
fail to prejudice the circulation and advertising of the paper; and a
dozen other of the staff. At eight o’clock the rhythm of marching feet
sounded, and the tumult of voices. Five hundred undergraduates from Old
Central massed in the street before the office and gave the University’s
three times three for The Guardian and its owner. The rumor had come to
them. They were there to tackle any mob that arrived seeking trouble.
None materialized. The students stayed and sang and cheered until
midnight, and then dispersed. More than the protection offered, to those
of The Guardian, was the proof that Young America at least was still
American to the core, without taint of doubt or hyphen!

The mob-rumor had been a canard. Organizations such as the Deutscher
Club do not raise mobs. They sit in solemn conclave, when action is
called for, and appoint proper committees. Insult gross and profound
having been offered Fenchester’s leading social organization, its
president summoned the Board of Governors, which in turn appointed a
Special Committee with instructions. The first act of the committee
was to advertise a liberal reward for the “apprehension of the criminal
miscreant”--to such heights of expressiveness did righteous indignation
run--who had filched the club’s flag. The second was to send a
sub-committee to call upon Mr. Jeremy Robson, owner and responsible
editor of that libertine sheet, The Guardian. Chance may or may not
have dictated that two of the committee, Arnold Blasius, the hatter, and
Nicholas Engel, the grocer, should be important local advertisers. The
chairman was Emil Bausch.

Forewarned of their coming, Jeremy had Andrew Galpin on hand. The two
young makers of The Guardian, shirt-sleeved and alert, received the
black-coated delegation of clubmen, formal and accusing, in the inner
den.

“We have come to demand a full retragtion,” Emil Bausch opened the ball.

Unhappily, since his first interview with that dignitary, Jeremy had
been invariably afflicted with mingled exasperation and amusement at
Bausch’s every action. The apostle of Deutschtum roused within Jeremy
an impulse of perversity which flatly refused to take the heavy German
seriously.

“All right. Go ahead and do it.”

“Do what?” Bausch’s eyes goggled at the editor suspiciously.

“Do what you came to do. Make your demand.”

“I do do it.”

“You make a formal demand on behalf of the Deutscher Club for a
retraction of my editorial?”

“We do.”

“Declined, with the editor’s thanks.”

Mr. Bausch’s neck showed signs of swelling beyond the confines of his
collar. “You refuse to accebd the rebre-sentations of this commiddee?”
 he inquired, with a thickening accent.

“Don’t know. Let’s hear ’em.”

The chairman produced from the official pocket a document which he
proceeded to render vocally. It was quite grave and awful in verbiage,
and there was a great deal of it, rising through a spiral of whereas-es
to a climax of denunciation. At the conclusion the editor held out his
hand.

“If you please.”

“You want this?” queried Mr. Bausch doubtfully. “What for?”

“For to-morrow’s paper.”

“You wish to publish it? Why?”

A glint appeared in Jeremy’s eye. “It’s so prettily worded,” he
explained with sweet simplicity.

Bausch turned the characterization over in his heavy mind. “Pretty,” he
said. “_Pretty?_ I do not think--”

“He’s making a fool of you, Mr. Chairman,” broke in Engel, a little,
neat, nervous man. He turned on Jeremy. “You insult our club and now you
insult us.”

“Apropos of insults,” retorted Jeremy: “what about this document that
Mr. Bausch has just read so expressively? Murder seems to be about the
only thing that is n’t charged in it. Would you call that a testimonial
of regard?”

“Consider the provocation,” said Blasius. “Be square about this thing,
Mr. Robson.”

“Give me a chance,” returned the editor promptly. “Don’t begin by
holding a gun to my head.”

“The case is blain,” stated Bausch in his heavy accents. “You cannot
deny the editorial charching that we made a festivity over the
Lusitania.”

“Evidently not.”

“We demand a retragtion of that.”

“On what ground?”

“Because it was an outrache on a high-toned, representative
organization, a private--”

“Was n’t it true?” Andrew Galpin’s sharp-edged voice injected a new and
brisker element.

“Huh?” The interrogation seemed to have been jolted out of Chairman
Bausch’s volume from somewhere below the Adam’s apple.

“Was n’t it true that there was a dinner at the club to celebrate the
Lusitania?”

“That is not the question.”

“It’s my question.”

“It’s the only question,” put in Jeremy.

“You refuse to apologize--”

“For commenting on fact? Certainly.”

“While we ’re on the subject,” pursued Galpin, “is n’t it true that
Professor Brender, of Old Central, came in when the dinner was half
over, and gave you all hell for pulling such a rotten stunt?”

“Gott im Himmel!” muttered Blasius. He turned to Bausch. “Is that true?”

“That he said his heart was all for Germany, and that if submarine
warfare was necessary to her success it must go on; but that the man who
rejoiced over its necessary tragedies was a reckless fool who put every
decent German-American in a false light? Isn’t that true?” continued
the relentless voice of Galpin.

“Are you going to prind that?” muttered Bausch.

“A newspaper does n’t print everything it hears. If we could have
verified it, we’d have printed it, at the time.”

“We shall come back to the point,” said the chairman, recovering
himself. “The Guardian editorial is an affront to a respected and
valuable element of the community.”

“We don’t respect child-and-women murderers,” flashed Jeremy, “nor those
who honor them.”

“It all comes to this, Mr. Robson.” This was Blasius. “Is your paper for
or against Germany in this war?”

“The Guardian is neutral.”

“Neutral!” snorted Bausch. “A straddler.”

“Is that editorial neutral?” demanded Engel.

“Not neutral as regards piracy,” answered its writer steadily. “Neutral
as regards legitimate warfare.”

“Of which you are the jutch,” sneered Bausch.

“So far as my paper is concerned.”

Bausch returned doggedly to the charge. “The Deutscher Club is a private
organization of gentlemen. For what goes on within its doors we are not
resbonsible to any outsider. The Guardian has traduced and defamed us--”

“Sounds like an action for libel,” interpolated Galpin. “Who drew that
up: Judge Dana?”

Again the chairman gulped in unpleasant surprise. But he recovered and
continued: “--and in the name of the club we demand a full and fitting
apology--”

“Hold on!” cried Jeremy. “It was a retraction just now.”

“Retragtion or apology,” amended the baited chairman. “It is all the
same.”

“Quite different. A retraction admits an untruth. An apology merely says
we’re sorry.”

“I guess either will do,” muttered Engel uncertainly, perceiving that
matters were not improving by discussion. “We’ll leave it to you which.”

Jeremy stood up significantly. “Neither,” said he.

The other two committeemen led out their chairman whose Adam’s apple,
though pumping furiously, was missing fire so far as vocal result was
concerned. Their excited interchange of views died away in the hall.

“I guess we’ve invited Old Miss Trouble in to tea this time, sure,”
 observed Galpin.

“You didn’t tell _me_ about the Brender outbreak, Andy.”

“You were away at the time and had enough troubles, anyway. We could n’t
get it in any such shape that I dared print it.”

“Would n’t Brender talk?”

“Tried him. Tight like a clam. Murray, who was assigned to tackle him,
said he looked like a man who had lost something.”

“His country, maybe,” surmised Jeremy.

“Ay-ah. I would n’t wonder. I tell you, Boss, there’s a type of
German-American that is going through hell and out the other end before
this thing is over. Me, I’m glad I’m not one!”

“I’d rather be that kind than belong to the Bausch species, though.
Let’s start a Back-to-Germany movement in The Guardian, Andy, and
nominate Bausch for the first departure. Would n’t that qualify us for
the Suicide Club!”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Boss. The Dutchers will save us the trouble of
suicide, if they can.”

And on the following day, he bore the news of the first attack to his
chief.

“Boss, prepare! The blow has fell!” he proclaimed tragically.

“Who’s been denouncing us now?”

“Worse. We’re excommunicated. The Deutscher Club has expelled the paper
from its sacred precincts. Out we go, lock, stock, and barrel: bell,
book, and candle. Two whole copies lost to circulation at one swoop.”

“Mild, Andy, mild! Verrall’s got a list of thirty-seven quits by
this morning’s mail. He’ll die of heart-failure superinduced by bad
circulation if you and I don’t stop running this paper into the ground.”

“Verrall’s an earnest soul,” observed the general manager, “but he’s
always on the borderland of hysteria, and if an advertiser looks cross
at him, over he flops.”

“Yes. He had an ‘attack’ this morning. Blasius is out.”

“Entirely?”

“Five inches double; three times a week. Gone glimmering into the jaws
of Hun ruthlessness.”

“Any one else?”

“Threats of reduced space. If only they dared, Andy, what would n’t they
do to us! But they need us in their business.”

Confirmation in part of Verrall’s dismal forebodings came from Arthur
Betts, of Kelter & Betts, who dropped in to see Jeremy. Since the first
struggle with the Retailers’ Association, Betts had proved himself a
“good sport,” as he would have wished to have it put, in admitting The
Guardian’s right to editorial independence, which did not in any measure
inhibit him from trying to “put one over” on the paper whenever he
thought that he saw a chance. That was part of the game. Though usually
worsted, he sometimes succeeded in landing a bit of free advertising.
But, like a sound opponent, he had become a strong partisan of Jeremy as
against the field.

“You sure put it to the German lot in that editorial,” he observed with
a shining eye.

“They had it coming to them,” returned Jeremy.

“Right! But they’re sore clean through. Any cancellations?”

“Blasius.”

“Yep. He’s a dachshund all right. Do you know what they’re stirring up
in the Retailers’ Association?”

“No.”

“This is rank treason and betrayal of secrets and so on; but they’re
talking down your circulation. Are you losing much?”

“Some.”

“Enough for ’em to demand a lower rate?”

“They can demand. They won’t get it. We’ve got a comfortable margin
left.”

“Well, of course I’m for it, officially. Here’s another point. Some of
our customers are beginning to talk to the salespeople and department
heads about The Guardian. ‘Do you advertise in that paper? What do you
do that for? It’s no good. Waste of money. I would n’t believe a thing I
read in it, not even an ad.’ You know the line of stuff.”

Jeremy did know it and knew how dangerous it was. “Who are they?” he
asked.

“Hans, Fritz, and Wilhelm,” grinned the other. “They are n’t scaring
us. But you may get a kick-back from some of the other stores that are
timider than we are.”

“I’ll keep an eye out, Betts,” said the editor.

Thus the anti-Guardian campaign simmered, bearing testimony to a steady
fire and a slow boiling beneath the surface. Said Judge Selden Dana to
Montrose Clark: “Our young cub of The Guardian is getting in wronger
every day. I think a polite call is about due.”




CHAPTER V

DEUTSCHTUM moves slowly, because it moves methodically. No general
and open manifestation against The Guardian had followed the Lusitania
editorial. None retaliated for the attack on the “Surrender Bill.” But,
little by little, there became apparent a guerrilla warfare upon the
paper. Manufacturers of certain products widely circulated in the State,
particularly beers and soft drinks, began to withdraw or decrease their
advertising. In every instance it was noteworthy that these concerns
bore German names. Furthermore, small and casual advertisers of Teutonic
cast of name and mind--For Sale, Want Ads, and the general line of
“classified”--switched from The Guardian to the more amenable Record.

Despite all this The Guardian made a clear and pretty profit in the busy
year of 1915. Ups and downs marked the course of its circulation, but
the general tendency was upward. The Retailers’ Association had given
over any hopes of a successful drive against its advertising rates.
Indeed, the best they could look for was that there would not be another
increase. Success, however, had entailed special expenses. A new press
had been installed. The working force was increased. An active and
discontented element in the press-room, led by Milliken, had compelled
an expensive readjustment of the wage scale, and the combative Socialist
was already lining up his men for another raid. Thus Jeremy had found it
expedient to renew from time to time the twenty-thousand-dollar note at
the Drovers’ Bank. No difficulties had been made over the renewals. Nor
was the owner of the paper much concerned with the matter. From the
time that his property-had turned Prosperity Corner into Easy Street,
to adopt Andrew Galpin’s term, Jeremy had been content to leave the
business and financial details to the general manager and Verrall,
reserving himself for editorial problems. Even Verrall, of the
twittering nervous system, was now ready to admit that the paper was
winning and would soon be an established property, if Jeremy would
tactfully refrain from further and gratuitous depredations against
Teutonic sensibilities. Verrall did not appreciate, to the full, the
unforgiving tenacity of Deutschtum.

Fortunately for Jeremy Robson, the campaign for the State offices of
Centralia, in the fall of 1915, took precedence over everything else
in the public mind. The reelection of Governor Embree on the
anti-corporation issue was all but conceded. But it was not the issue
that insured him victory. The solid German vote did that. Orders had
gone forth to the German-language press that Governor Embree, even
where special conditions made it impracticable to support him, must
be recognized as an authority on international complications and a
statesman of national caliber. For Embree’s reelection meant that he
would be next in line for the Senate vacancy, three years hence, and
Deutschtum needed sympathetic souls, such as it deemed Martin Embree
to be, in the high places of government. The real fight of the old-line
crowd was for control of the State Legislature. For this they were quite
ready to sacrifice their gubernatorial candidate, one Tellersen, a stock
war-horse of the political stables. A safe representation in either
legislative house would mean that Embree’s pet corporation measure,
aimed specially at the P.-U. and its branches, but affecting all
railroads in the State, was scotched. It might even mean that the
Blanket Franchise Bill could be put through. As a further safeguard to
corporate interests, the P.-U. intended to put forward, later, its own
legal adviser for a place on the Court of Appeals bench.

The campaign drew the Governor and Jeremy Robson closer together than
they had been since the Lusitania editorial. Where no vital matter
of principle was involved, The Guardian was quite willing to keep
off German toes. On his side, the campaigning Governor consented to
emphasize Americanism while still maintaining his attitude of sympathy
for the sentiments of the German-Americans. Embree won by a large
majority, the German districts giving him a preponderance of votes
which gravely troubled Jeremy when the figures were analyzed. But on the
legislative side it was conceded that only the brilliant campaign of The
Guardian in Fenchester and The Journal in Bellair had averted a signal
defeat. Widespread “trading” of the German-American vote had favored the
P.-U. plans. So close was the result that, when the figures were all in,
no man could say which side had won. Taking both houses together there
were at least ten indeterminate votes. Plainly the battle for control
of the State would be fought out in the spring session between the
corporation interests, locally represented by Montrose Clark and Judge
Selden Dana, and the radicals led by Governor Embree. Through that
winter Jeremy, scenting the lesser battle from afar, cried “Ha-ha!”
 editorially with frequency and fervor, relegating the greater cause to
the background for the time. Herein he was honest enough, as well as
politic. He believed that the action and course of the United States
was in abeyance until the people should have opportunity of making
themselves heard in the presidential decision of the coming year.
Hence he was content to wait, always providing that no major issue
imperatively called for an expression of policy. For a time, too,
Germany seemed more inclined to respect the dictates of humanity.
Locally, Jeremy found the atmosphere clearing. The Governor’s triumphant
reëlection had pleased and appeased the Germans, and they were inclined
to accord a certain measure of credit to The Guardian. Jeremy was
sensible of an improved temper in many members of the Deutscher Club
as he met them casually. But Blasius was still out of the paper;
Stock-muller as well. And Emil Bausch, when he encountered Jeremy on
the street, became absorbed in the contemplation of the Beautiful as
exemplified in cloud-shapes.

Virtuously unconscious of any backsliding or suspicion thereof, Jeremy
was surprised at being made the target of a direct attack by Miss
Letitia Pritchard, whom he was passing with a bow on Bank Street one
March day of 1916, when she held him up with a lowered umbrella.

“Mr. Robson, have you gone over?” she inquired, her eyes snapping fire
into the query.

Naturally, Jeremy asked what she meant.

“I’ve been taking The Guardian again ever since the Lusitania editorial,
because I just had to have an American newspaper in the house. Are you
still that?”

“Do you doubt it?”

“Could anybody help but doubt it!” challenged the vigorous lady.
“Politics, politics, politics! Nothing but stupid politics! Don’t you
know the greatest war in history is coming closer to us every day?”

“I hope not closer to us.”

“A fool’s hope! Do you know your Bible, Mr. Robson?”

“Not as well as I ought.”

“Better read it more. Those writers were n’t afraid to speak their minds
in a good cause.”

At the ugly adjective Jeremy flushed.

“But that’s beside the matter,” she pursued, twinkling at him suddenly.
“I came across a quotation that the Deutscher Club ought to send you,
suitably illuminated. Isaiah, 14, 8; the last sentence. Look it up.”

“I will,” promised the editor.

“And you can come and tell me how well it fits,” she threw back at him
over her departing shoulder.

Important telegrams claimed Jeremy’s attention on his return. Having
disposed of them, his mind reverted to Miss Pritchard’s suggestion for a
Deutscher Club quotation for him.

‘“Buddy,” he said to the industrious Mr. Higman, “look up the fourteenth
chapter of Isaiah, copy the last sentence of the eighth verse and bring
it to me.”

Protesting under his breath that this was no time for Sunday-School
exercises, Buddy interrupted the composition of a Social Jotting, and
set about the errand. When he returned there was a pleased expression
upon his face. He presented his chief with a slip of paper thus
inscribed:

“Since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us.”

“What’s this, Buddy?” demanded the chief sternly. “I said the Bible.”

“That’s where I got it,” returned the appreciative Buddy. “Some of those
old guys could sure sling the up-to-date stuff.”

“Bring me the Old Testament.” Jeremy looked up the text and, to his
surprise, verified the exact words. But when he saw the context he
laughed. And that evening he made one of his rare calls.

“Isaiah is no prophet so far as The Guardian is concerned,” he declared
to Miss Pritchard. “And the style of that sting rings familiar. Where
did you get it?”

“It was written on the margin of an old Guardian.”

Jeremy raised questioning eyes to her face. Miss Pritchard nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “She was back in Berne when that was sent.”

“All right?” Jeremy was conscious that his voice was less _insouciant_
than he could have wished.

“Quite. She will go back to Germany after the war, I suppose.”

“Will you give her a message for me?”

“If you wish.”

The dry, slightly hesitant tone meant, “If you _will_ be so foolish.”

“Tell her for The Guardian,” said Jem, “that this feller has n’t laid
down. Tell her that he won’t lay down”--he paused, and then completed
the paraphrase--“though Hell from beneath is moved for him to meet him
at his coming.”

“Put that on your editorial page,” said Miss Pritchard, with a thrill in
her voice. “I’d like Marcia to see it there.”

“Perhaps I will when the day comes,” he answered and took his leave.

It was the first message that he had sent to Marcia Ames since they had
parted at the door of the Pritchard mansion nearly four years before.
Every sense of her, every thought of her, was as vivid, unblurred,
untainted by time as if she had gone from him yesterday: “the loveliness
that wanes not, the Love that ne’er can wane.” Now, even by so tenuous a
thread as his impersonal message for The Guardian, he held to her again.
And in his heart sang something lesser but sweeter than hope.




CHAPTER VI

WORDS occasionally take epidemic form. Such was the course of the word
“hyphen” through the United States in the year 1916, with its alternate
phases, “hyphenate” and “hyphenated.” Centralia, however, established
a quarantine against the terms. They were checked at the borders of the
State. Where they did creep in and break out into print, it was but a
sporadic appearance, the references being both cautious and resentful
that such a characterization should be allowed to the license of an
unbridled Eastern press. None was willing to admit that the hyphen could
be an issue in the future.

It fell to The Guardian to make the first use of “hyphenate” as a term
carrying a suggestion of reproach. Quite casually, indeed carelessly,
it was written in a sentence of no special import in one of Jeremy’s
editorials. Where bolder and more direct offense might have passed with
no more than the usual retaliation, this by-word was seized upon by the
enemy. It came in the more pat in that, since Jeremy’s talk with Miss
Pritchard, The Guardian had assumed a more positive tone upon war
issues. Now the hyphenated press again fell upon him tooth and nail. The
Marlittstown Herold und Zeitung sounded the keynote in declaring
that The Guardian, not content with playing England’s game and
misrepresenting Germany’s part in the war, had now descended to calling
the loyal German-Americans foul names. “Hyphenate” did n’t seem to
Jeremy a very villainously foul name. He was much inclined to dismiss
the whole thing from mind as a petty excuse for renewed hostilities, had
not the flood of letters in his mail apprised him that the chance word
had been salt upon the raw surfaces of the Teutonic skin. Selecting
a typical letter, he replied to it in a moderate and good-tempered
editorial, pointing out that in the hyphen itself was no harm; but that
essentially the Nation had a right to expect every German-American,
Irish-American, Swedish-American, or other adoptive citizen, to consider
the interests of this country as paramount in any crisis. Far from
soothing the exacerbated press, this seemed rather to inflame them.
Their principles were not clear (other than that they were not to be
“dictated to” by Jeremy or any one else), but their temper was. That one
misstep had landed The Guardian in a hornet’s nest.

Just about the time when the buzzing and whirring were the loudest,
Judge Selden Dana called to see Jeremy, and requested the favor of half
an hour’s uninterrupted conference upon a subject of importance. When
the long-jawed, sleepy-eyed, crafty-spoken lawyer settled down to his
topic, it manifested itself as the imminent fight in the Legislature
over the public utilities bills. On behalf of certain clients, Judge
Dana would be pleased to know what attitude The Guardian might be
expected to assume.

“Don’t you read The Guardian, Judge?” inquired its editor.

“Always. I may add, carefully.”

“Then do you have to ask where we stand?”

“Circumstances change, Mr. Robson. Conditions also. Sometimes opinions.”

“Changed circumstances or conditions might alter The Guardian’s
opinions. Is that the idea?”

“I suppose that The Guardian’s circumstances are changed,” murmured the
lawyer.

Jeremy’s easy smile vanished. “The Guardian is able to take care of
itself.”

“Up to a point. That I will concede. But, all things considered, would
not the paper do well to make some friends now, instead of enemies?”

“That depends on the price to be paid.”

“Small. Ridiculously small.” Judge Dana spread out a pair of candid
hands. “Mr. Robson, I’m not going to ask that The Guardian oppose the
Corporation Control Bill when it comes up.”

“Indeed!”

“Nor that you’ll support the Blanket Franchise Bill.”

“I appreciate your forbearance.”

“But The Guardian has professed a profound regard for neutrality.”

“As to the war only.”

“Neutrality,” repeated the lawyer, “as to the war. Whether you
have practiced what you preach is another matter. Some of our most
influential citizens and business men--_and_ business men--appear
to think not. I don’t know,” he continued with intent, “whether The
Guardian’s note for a considerable amount--say, well, twenty thousand
dollars--would be considered safe today by the best of our local banks.
I say, I don’t know.”

“There’s very little you don’t know, isn’t there, Judge?” retorted the
editor evenly.

“I try to keep informed; I try to keep informed.” The long jaw relaxed
a trifle. “Now, Mr. Robson, a reasonable neutrality as to these pending
measures would be greatly appreciated by us.”

“Appreciation is a vague sort of thing.”

“Don’t think you’re going to trap me, young man,” warned the visitor
keenly. “I’m not here to make offers. Every man may have his price, but
I don’t happen to be fool enough to think that I know yours or could pay
it if I did. I want to appeal to your sense of fairness.”

Jeremy laughed, not unpleasantly. “Don’t scare me, Judge.”

“No. This is plain talk. The P.-U. intends to open up soon its extensive
educational campaign of advertising, to instruct the public on these new
issues.”

“Through the newspapers?”

“Through the newspapers. Would The Guardian refuse that advertising?”

“I don’t see any reason why it should.”

“Very good. Would it accept the advertising and take our money in
payment for value received, and then turn about and destroy all the
value to us by attacking our arguments editorially?”

“Very ingenious,” smiled Jeremy. “But we’ve been over that before, have
n’t we?”

“Not ingenious. Simple fairness. Is n’t it?”

“Maybe it is.”

“Then--”

“Then it’s quite plain that we can’t take your ads. In other words,
Judge Dana, you can’t buy our editorial opinions.”

“See, now, how you divert my meaning,” reproached the lawyer. “I’ve
distinctly said that all we expected in The Guardian is neutrality.”

“You can’t buy our silence, either,”

“What’ll you take for The Guardian?” asked the lawyer abruptly.

“The Guardian’s not for sale.”

“It will be before the year’s end.”

“As a prophet you don’t qualify, Judge.”

“As a man who knows what is going on, I do. Figure out what the loss
of the P.-U. advertising will cost you; the present advertising and the
coming campaign. Figure on top of that the other railroad advertising
affected by this strike bill of Embree’s. Add what you’re losing every
day by your war-policy. Then figure out where you’re going to get your
next loan. After that, come and see me. Delighted to have you call at
any time. Good-bye.”

“Now, I wonder how much of that is bluff,” Jeremy communed with himself,
after his caller had left.

He had not long to wonder. The P.-U. contract was cancelled on
the following day: a sure sixteen hundred dollars and a potential
twenty-five hundred dollars a year. On top of that every railroad
company advertising in The Guardian gave notice of withdrawal.

At least four thousand dollars more, gone. True, Jeremy might have
brought suit, but the contracts were so loosely drawn that the issue
would have been doubtful. As if by a preconcerted signal, various
concerns in Bellair and the other large cities, which had been
consistent patrons of The Guardian for years, dropped out. One chum
manufacturing company was quite frank as to the reason. So much
criticism had poured in from the German farmers, against The Guardian
and any one supporting it, that the concern deemed it wise to remove the
cause of offense. Jeremy pondered upon the probability that the P.-U.,
represented for political reasons in the Deutscher Club by Judge Dana,
was working with the hyphenate element to down the paper. He foresaw
that he would need all his resources, editorial and financial, to
weather the storm. No hope, for the present, of paying off that
twenty-thou-sand-dollar note at the Drovers’ Bank. Upon the heels of the
thought, he recalled Dana’s innuendo.

He went at once to the bank and asked for the president, Mr. Warrington.
Mr. Warrington was gently regretful, but could not see his way to renew
the note. No, not even for half the amount. Money was in great demand.
Newspaper security was proverbially unstable. Finally: “One of our
directors who is in a position to be informed strongly advises against
continuing the loan.” Knowing beforehand what name he should find,
Jeremy looked up a list of the directors. There it was, “Montrose Clark,
President Fenchester Public Utilities Corporation.”

Pride, an excellent quality in an editor, is no asset to a borrower.
Swallowing his, Jeremy made a pilgrimage of mortification to the
offices of the P.-U. Corporation, where he presented to Garson, the
hand-perfected secretary, his application to see Mr. Montrose Clark.
Garson, discreetly and condescendingly smiling from above the carnation
in his curvy black coat, said that he would see if it could be arranged.
Thereafter Jeremy had leisure to do more swallowing, for he was kept
waiting a humiliating and purposeful hour. Admitted, at length, to the
presence, he went at once to the point.

“Mr. Clark, it is going to be very inconvenient not to have The Guardian
note renewed.”

The president of the P.-U. was no foe to time-saving directness. “It
would be very inconvenient for us to have The Guardian misrepresenting
the new franchise plan.”

“That’s not a franchise. It’s a Hudson’s Bay Company charter. It would
give you the right to do anything from conducting a revival to raising
beans on the right of way. It is n’t even constitutional.”

“Lesser legal authorities than yourself venture to dissent,” returned
the other, sardonically. “Such as Judge Dana.”

“He’s paid to.”

“As you are paid for your partisanship, in circulation among
sensation-seekers, and in the favors of that blatherskite, Embree.”

“The Guardian stands by the Governor in this fight.”

“Go to him for your loan, then.”

“Am I to understand that unless I play the corporation game here, the
banks are closed to me?”

“Not from anything I have said.”

“_Said_: no. It’s pretty plain what you mean. Well, the plant is good
security. I can get money from the Chicago banks.”

“Probably not,” was the quiet retort.

It fell upon Jeremy’s consciousness, with chill foreboding, that this
might be true. Little though he knew of banking, he guessed that any
large, out-of-town banks would take counsel of the local institutions
before making a loan. What information would thus be elicited would
hardly be favorable. He rose.

“All right, Mr. Clark. If you ‘re going to fight that way, it can’t be
helped. The Guardian is n’t going to back down. We’ll fight you on
your own terms, to a finish.” The red face of the local great man grew
redder. “With this difference, that we’ll fight fair.” The face turned
purple. “I bid you good-day, sir.”

“What do you mean by talking to me about fairness?” burst out the other.
“You don’t know what fairness is.”

“Call it patriotism, then. If I were in your position, Mr. Clark, I
don’t think I’d care to make a deal with the Deutscher Club committee,
to try and ruin a newspaper for daring to be American and not
hyphen-American.” Montrose Clark bolted up out of his chair. “It’s a
lie,” he roared.

“It’s the truth. Ask Judge Dana. You’re going to put him up for the
Court of Appeals, I hear. Let me suggest that you read his record first.
Or, you can read it later in The Guardian.”

“Don’t you threaten your betters, sir.” Jeremy laughed. “Let me tell
you before you go,” pursued the exacerbated banker, “that I have n’t
forgotten your impertinence in pretending to expect me to trot around to
your wretched little newspaper office.”

Instead of annoying, this final flash of pettiness rather cheered
Jeremy. After all, he reflected, on his way back, a man so small-souled
could not be a very formidable opponent. Montrose Clark, he surmised,
was powerful chiefly because nobody had ever boldly challenged his
power. Nevertheless, Jeremy did not under-reckon the seriousness of
his situation. Money the paper must have, and at once. By gutting his
reserve and selling some high-grade stocks in an unfavorable market, he
could pay off the note. But, in that case, The Guardian would have to
continue on a shoe-string, and with obvious troubles looming ahead. He
laid the problem in conference before Andrew Galpin and Max Verrall.
Verrall, who for weeks had been prowling about the office with his pale
and bony fingers plunged in his brickish hair, ready at any moment, one
might infer, to pluck out some desperate handfuls, promptly made the
same suggestion that Montrose Clark had proffered, though in a different
tone.

“Go to the Governor.”

“How would he have any spare money?” demanded Galpin.

“He can get it easy enough. His name on a note would go with any bank in
the Northern Tier.”

“No. That won’t do,” objected Jeremy. “We’re too close politically. That
would compromise The Guardian if it were ever known.”

“Let him fix it up for you, then, without his endorsement,” insisted the
other. “I’ll go up and see him now.”

Arrangements were quickly completed. Nothing easier, the Governor had
said, smiling. He had sent Verrall up to Spencerville with letters. All
was concluded that evening. The Spencerville Agricultural Savings Bank
would be glad to loan to Mr. Robson, on the security of The Guardian
plant, any sum up to twenty-five thousand dollars. Verrall brought back
the glad news in the morning.

“Too easy,” grumbled Galpin. “Don’t close yet,” he advised his chief
privately. “I’m taking a day off.”

The general manager made a flying trip to Spencerville. On his return,
he held a long conference with Jeremy, the upshot of which was that the
Governor was warmly thanked for his kind offices, but informed that the
loan would not be needed as another arrangement had been made. The
other arrangement was a second-mortgage loan on the building for fifteen
thousand dollars. This, they hoped, would pull them through.

Andrew Galpin had won his point by a silent exhibit of a snap-shot taken
in Spencerville. It showed the obliging bank, with its front window
bearing this inscription:

“Landwirtschaftliche Spar-Bank.”

The lettering was German text.




CHAPTER VII

MIGHTY was the clash of political lances, that spring of 1916, in
Fenchester. Senate and Assembly alike rang with noble phrases and high
sentiments. The mortal agony of a world across the seas, locked in a
conflict which should determine the future of civilization, became a
quite unimportant matter to those embattled souls on the hill. Let outer
and lesser history take its course; it was theirs to decide whether the
State of Centralia should or should not thenceforth emancipate itself
from the rule of its former and uncrowned dictators. From the front
pages of the local press, a committee vote was likely to evict an
Italian battle, or an interview with Montrose Clark or ‘Governor Embree
take precedence over a peace-hint from Baron Burian. All of which meant,
if you read The Record, that the radical and socialistic element were
undertaking to slay the fairy-babe, Blanket Franchise, and substitute
the horrid changeling, Corporation Control; whereas, if you pinned your
faith to The Guardian, it indicated the final struggle of an oppressed
people to writhe out from beneath the heel of a conscienceless,
tyranny of dollars. Amidst all this sound and fury Judge Selden Dana’s
candidacy, signifying much but saying little, was pressed. Only one
reference had the Judge made to Jeremy’s warning about his past record.

“Remember that libel is criminal as well as civil, my young friend.”

To which Jeremy replied cheerfully: “Let us know when your formal
announcement is made, Judge. We’ll give you a good show.”

“Agreed,” said the lawyer. “And I’ll give you some advertising, too.
I’ve got to convert some of your deluded followers.”

Already the advertising campaign of the P.-U. was in full swing. Part
of it had been offered to The Guardian, in spite of Judge Dana’s earlier
threat. That had been partly bluff. The astute politician knew that
an element, not otherwise attainable, could be reached with argument
through the radical paper. Only with great difficulty had he persuaded
Montrose Clark to this view. Said the public utilitarian, reluctantly
according his assent: “I haven’t forgotten that that cub accused us of
playing the Germans against his paper. I gave him the lie.”

Judge Dana, who knew far more about the Deutscher Club’s internal
operations than he cared to have his principal realize, passed this
observation with a non-committal smile.

“I’m going to advertise my own candidacy there,” he pursued. “To get
converts you’ve got to go after the other side.”

After having prevailed upon the public utilitarian to adopt his view,
Judge Dana was chagrined at having the proffered advertisements rejected
by the owner of The Guardian.

“But why?” he demanded, his sleepy eyes lifted to Jeremy’s with a candid
and injured expression.

“You want too much. I remember your learned and able argument as to
editorial forbearance toward advertisers, Brother Dana.”

The lawyer shifted his ground. “Is it fair to deny the other side a
hearing?”

“That’s where you’ve got me,” admitted Jeremy. “It is n’t. But if I take
your ads and then go after you editorially, you’ll claim that we are
double-crossing you.”

In fact this is precisely what the ingenious Dana had purposed doing,
through the lips of his campaign speakers. But he came back promptly
with “The ads are offered without stipulations.”

Jeremy considered. Setting aside the money consideration, the mere
appearance of the P.-U. advertising in The Guardian would notably add
to the paper’s prestige, as an admission that its advertising pull
was essential even to a hostile campaign. He very much wanted that
advertising. Picking up a pencil he scribbled a sentence, conned it,
amended, elided, copied it fair and full and handed it across to the
other.

“Provided that every ad carries this footnote,” he said.

Judge Dana read. “You young hellion!” he murmured, and grinned aslant
and ruefully. He repeated the words on the paper. “This paid advertising
is submitted and accepted without reference to what may appear upon the
subject in the news or advertising columns of The Guardian.”

“All right, is n’t it?” asked Jeremy, in the tone of innocence.

“You young hellion!” said the Judge again, almost affectionately, this
time. His double-cross accusation was gone glimmering. “I’ll go you,
anyway,” he decided. “Do you want the same footnote on my campaign
stuff?”

“No. That’ll speak for itself.”

“Let it speak fair. That’s all I ask. And see here, young man. Twenty
years ago is n’t a fair basis to judge a man on.”

“It is, if the man has n’t changed,” Jeremy shot back.

At what was judged to be the psychological moment, the news was
permitted to seep into the papers of the State that the eminent jurist
Judge Selden Dana was being urged to become a candidate for the
vacancy on the Court of Appeals bench. The method was sedate almost
to demureness. Immediately there blossomed forth fragrant and colorful
editorials, from all corners of the State to form a wreath for the
blushing and débutante candidacy. These constituted an enthusiastic and
determined public demand. Judge Dana urbanely announced that he would
accede to it. The Guardian carried the announcement as news, giving
it due prominence. Thereafter, for several days, Judge Dana, Montrose
Clark, and a number of other important and interested persons, secured
early editions of The Guardian each day with more interest than they
would have cared to admit. When the attack did come, it was in such
peculiar and indeterminate form that there was a general sigh of relief
over a venture foredoomed to fall flat.

On his editorial page, Jeremy had “boxed” a double-column at the
top, with what was obviously the outline of a half-tone photographic
rectangle. But the interior was a blank. Below it ran the legend:

A CANDIDATE ( Fill in the Picture to Suit Yourself)

This was followed by one of the most biting poems from the grimmest
volume of modern American literature, with the attributive line:

“From Edgar Lee Masters ‘Spoon River Anthology’”

               I was attorney for the Q.

               And the Indemnity Company which insured

               The owners of the mine.

               I pulled the wires with judge and jury

               And the upper courts, to beat the claims

               Of the crippled, the widow and orphan,

               And made a fortune thereat.

               The bar association sang my praises

               In a high-flown resolution

               And the floral tributes were many--

               But the rats devoured my heart

               And a snake made a nest in my skull!

Deeming this a flash-in-the-pan, the Dana partisans reckoned without the
terrible power of allusiveness. Ugly memories rose to meet, identify,
and confirm the portrait. Day after day, Jeremy reprinted it, without
comment. The press in other places took it up, and in an unbelievably
brief time it had spread throughout the State, a strangleweed upon the
growth of the candidate’s tender young chances. Conferences were hastily
called. Ways and means of curbing The Guardian’s destructive activities
were projected, canvassed, and dismissed. Apparently there was no way
either of “handling” Jeremy Robson, or of uprooting a poem once planted
and spreading in the public consciousness. The candidate himself,
depressed but philosophical, pointed the way out. A substitute, stodgy
but honorable, was found, and the regrettable but timely return of an
ancient liver trouble compelled Judge Dana to withdraw from the
exigent demands of a political campaign to the seclusion of certain
reconstructive hot springs.

What effect this might have upon the legislative fight, no man could
foretell. Many thought that the Judge’s candidacy had, in itself,
impugned the P.-U. before the public. Certainly the leaders of the
Blanket Franchise movement missed his shrewd judgment, for he would
never have let them make the first move in a losing fight. In his
absence Montrose Clark forced the issue. Embree’s forces lined up
against him, and beat the Franchise Bill in the Assembly by a round
dozen of votes. Encouraged by this, the other side thrust forward
Governor Embree’s Corporation Control Bill as revised by Professor
Rappelje. Now it was time for the public utilities of the State to
rally to the last man, for this was a battle to the death. The Guardian
did yeoman work in this as in the first action; but the weight of
resources was on the other side. On the final vote the public utility
interests won by a scant but triumphant margin of three. Thus the whole
campaign had resulted in a draw. If Centralia had, on the one hand,
repudiated corporation control, on the other it had balked at the
radical measure put forth by the Governor. All that ground must be
fought over again. The one clear triumph had fallen to The Guardian, in
the ousting of Judge Dana.

How the Judge would take his enforced temporary exile was a speculation
which sprang into Jeremy Robson’s mind when, the smoke of the
corporation battle having cleared away, he met the shrewd jurist, brown,
hearty, and with no slightest liverish symptom, in the hotel restaurant.
Would he ignore Jeremy’s existence? The younger man gave him credit for
being too sound a sport for that. But he rather expected to be held at a
distance. Not at all. Dana came up and shook hands.

“Glad to see you looking so well, Judge,” said Jeremy, and meant it.

“Liver is n’t much if you take it in time,” returned the other gravely.
Then, “You still wield quite a lively pen, my young friend.”

“As a weapon of defense, it’s useful.”

“Look out that the point does n’t turn in on you.”

“Warning or threat, Judge?”

“Professional advice. Something I seldom give gratis.”

“I’ll bear it in mind. No ill-will, Judge?”

“Oh, I can take as well as give,” answered Dana, who prided himself on
never admitting and never forgetting an injury. “This is no kid-glove
game. But I would n’t have thought poetry had such a punch in politics.
I’ll have to look into that line a little closer.”

As an example of what the Judge could give in return for what he took,
there presently descended upon The Guardian a small but lively swarm
of libel suits. All were traceable, directly or inferentially, to the
office of Dana & Dana, a firm which did not ordinarily cater to this
class of business. Four were wholly without merit; two were of the kind
that can always be settled for a hundred dollars and counsel fees, and
the remaining one hinged upon an unfortunate and ambiguous sentence
in the tax-dodging charge against that aged but vigorous lady, Madam
Taylor.

“Hold-ups, pure and simple,” said Andrew Galpin indignantly. “Dana has
drummed them up.”

“Can you trace them to him? Safely enough so that we can print it?”
 asked his chief.

“Print a libel suit against ourselves!” said the general manager,
scandalized at this threat against one of the most rock-ribbed
principles of a tradition-choked calling.

“All seven of ’em. Tying each one up to Dana. No comment. The public
will supply that for themselves.”

The result more than justified the experiment. Dana & Dana, who had not
considered the possibility of this simple _riposte_, hastily withdrew
the four weakest suits, amidst no little public amusement. The other
three, however, were pressed, causing a continual wear-and-tear of worry
and expense, which was their object. Every charge against The Guardian’s
exchequer now meant less fighting power later when the test should come.

Politics succeeded politics in Centralia, meantime. Hardly was the
legislative campaign over when the presidential election began to
loom. Herein Jeremy found fresh source of difficulty and indecision.
By training and natural affiliation he was opposed to the party of
the President. In so far as The Guardian was committed at all, it was
Republican in national politics, and more Republican than anything else
in State. Undoubtedly the popular thing to do would be to enter upon
a virulent attack against all the presidential policies. Embree
urged this. It would go far to reconstitute the paper with the
German-Americans who had already instituted the nation-wide campaign of
the hyphen in favor of the President’s opponent, taken by them on trust,
as nothing was known of him in a world-political sense other than that
he was a sturdy and fearless type of American. Possibly it was the
very vehemence of the hyphenates that impelled Jeremy to a cool-headed
course. Virulent he could not be; there was no venom in him. His first
formal pronouncement upon the campaign was to the effect that the United
States had never before had a choice between two alternative candidates
of such high character and attainment; and this he heartily believed.
The Guardian would support Hughes. But it served notice on all and
sundry that it would be no party to rancorous, unjust, and un-American
attacks upon a President whose path had been more beset with
difficulties and perils than any leader’s since the day of Lincoln. In
a State so violently preoccupied with political prejudices as Centralia,
this course was regarded as weak. It lost support to The Guardian.

Throughout the ensuing campaign, Jeremy never seemed able to get his
hands free from politics sufficiently to take up and develop a distinct
attitude toward the deepening, threatening problems of the war. Embree
deemed this fortunate. So did Galpin, upon whom the financial weight
of the burden of conduct was heavily pressing. The fewer superfluous
enmities The Guardian now stirred up, the better, to his way of
thinking. Verrall was all for peace at any political price. But though
the World-War was relegated to a place of secondary importance, in the
main, it was not consciously neglected or belittled. Slowly there had
grown up in The Guardian’s environment the feeling that, after all, here
was the one paper which was honestly undertaking to present the news as
it developed. This helped to hold its circulation, even among those who
bitterly resented its editorial attitude on the submarine, the bombing
of defenseless cities, and similar war enterprises. So the paper won
through the summer and fall of 1916, losing but little under the secret
unremitting pressure of Deutschtum. When the President was reëlected,
Jeremy Robson spoke out frankly and clearly the mind that was in him,
calling for a united nation to be ready for what events might come upon
it.

Back at the base of Jeremy’s hard-thinking brain there lay a lurking
self-accusation. Had he not used the political stress as a convenient
alibi? Had The Guardian truly stood on guard against the subtle and
powerful inner war being waged across the hyphen? What of the promise,
deadly serious despite its quaint Isaian twist, given to Marcia Ames? He
sensed the looming conflict. He shrank from the terms of fulfillment to
be exacted from him. But take up his pledge he must, when the hour came,
though Hell from beneath were moved for him to meet him at his coming.




CHAPTER VIII

DUMBA had gone. Von Bernstorff was preparing for departure. The
atmosphere which they had created under the cloak of diplomatic
privilege was malodorous with the taint of plottings, corruption, and
chicanery. Grain elevators were developing extraordinary tendencies
toward spontaneous combustion. Munitions plants were dissolving into
fiery fragments, in numbers beyond the reckoning of insurance-risk
experts. Strikes were materializing in the most unexpected places
and for the most unexplained reasons. An informal morning call upon a
peaceful and businessless “advertising agency” office in lower New
York had laid bare to the heads of Government the extent of Germany’s
official treachery, and inklings of it were beginning to leak out to
the public. Strident politicians were filling the atmosphere with
irresponsible clamor. The American representatives of Deutschtum were
frantically explaining, denying, palliating, sulking, or plotting. No
corner of the horizon but bristled with imminent lightnings. The earth
underfoot trembled with the rumble of coming events. So the old year
of 1916 which saw civilization fighting with its back to the wall,
the great bubble of Russian might and Russian nationalism already
dissipating, France staggering though still resolute, England facing
terror and herself the more terrible in that grim confrontation, the
lesser nations opponent to Germany crushed to a mere welter of blood,
the Hun savagely certain of his triumph, and on this side of the ocean,
the United States being slowly, steadily, unwittingly, powerfully drawn
and bound by the gossamer threads of a nation’s psychology to the great
purposes before it--so 1916 passed into 1917.

With it passed United States Senator Eugene Harter, of the State of
Centralia. Time was when Senator Harter had been a useful figure in the
Senate, rather by the possession of a vote than for any other and
more forceful reason. But even his vote had been lost of late, for the
exigencies of war-complications had terrified him and a nervous and
overfed stomach had opportunely collapsed. The Senator fled to the
tropics for surcease from troublous national questions and in search
of health, and there encountered a mosquito in search of dinner. The
mosquito being infected with one of the regional fevers, his victim
passed, six weeks later, to that country where politics have been
unknown since Lucifer’s insurgents met their historical downfall. Thus
was left as heritage to the Senator’s already sufficiently bemuddled
State a legacy of further complications, in that his successor must
be elected in the early fall. Here was benign Fate moving to meet the
welcoming smile of Martin Embree, well ahead of schedule. As soon
as official decency permitted, he announced his candidacy for the
senatorship. With his German following nothing, he believed, could
defeat him. The path of glory extended, broad and unobstructed, before
his eager feet to the Capitol at Washington; and thence--who could tell?
His campaign prospered from the first.

Imagination could picture nothing less like a lion in Martin Embree’s
path of progress than the old man who, on a harsh March night of 1917,
sat in a scholar’s book-lined study, painfully writing. A bust of Goethe
looked benignly down upon him. There were pictures on the walls of
Schiller, of Lessing, of Beethoven, of Wagner, and the table was strewn
with German publications. By every bond of the old man’s lonely life, he
should have been at the Deutscher Club, for good news of the great war
had come through private channels, and the _brüdern_ were meeting that
evening to celebrate, in good German drink, and hearty German song, and
sturdy German sentiment, the promised triumph. Though an American
since early boyhood, Professor George Brender had grown old in these
associations. He was a lover of sound Rhenish wine and of the noble
literature of the mighty German poets, and of that tenderest and
loveliest and simplest of all music, the _Lieder_ of the Fatherland, and
above all, of the close comradeship of the German-American clan. Tonight
he was giving them all up. He had been forced to the sternest decision
of his life. Quite simply he wished that he might have died before his
seventieth year had set a sword in his hand wherewith he must now sever
himself from past loyalties and fellowships. It amounted to that. For,
torn to small fragments in his waste-basket, was a letter upon which he
had pondered for a week; a letter from another German-American, a man
wise and informed and clear of vision and of spirit, and that letter
summoned him, in the name of a lifelong friendship, now to declare
himself. From the first reading, he had known how the decision must
fall. The Germany of world-domination, of the “will to victory,” of the
torn and dishonored “scrap of paper,” of terrorism and the slaughter
of the helpless, and violation of humanity’s laws--that was not his
Germany. To it he owed no real allegiance. As between it and his
adoptive country he could no longer hesitate. He was an American. And
as the first step toward justifying himself to his own soul, George
Brender, Doctor of many degrees from Universities German and
American, head of the German Department of Old Central, feared of its
undergraduates for his caustic tongue, loved of its graduates for
his leal and generous heart, had resigned from the Deutscher Club of
Fenches-ter, with all that the action implies.

The gravest events of the cumulative international crisis did not more
deeply stir Fenchester than the resignation of Professor Brender.
Of such import to us human toads are the giant ripples upon the tiny
puddles wherein we mightily splash! Rumors of the most violent and
inspiring nature were passing from mouth to mouth before his letter
was formally announced but verification of his intent had been wanting.
Neither local paper had touched it, therefore. So the story grew and
took on strange embellishments. Professor Brender had torn down the
German flag from over the Deutscher Club door and resigned rather than
be expelled. Professor Brender had called upon the Deutscher Club to
rise and sing the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and had resigned in fury when
they refused. Professor Brender had denounced the Club as traitors and
been thrown out bodily by President Bausch. Professor Brender was going
to sue the Deutscher Club. The Deutscher Club was going to sue Professor
Brender. Gossip, untrammeled by the responsible restraints of print, was
having a gala day over the affair. Yet all that the old German
scholar had done was to resign, on the ground that his sympathies must
henceforth be American and not German.

Now he sat in his study, sorrowful and lonely, seeking to stem the tide
of rumor by a plain statement to the press. He wrote in German, for
thus his deeper feelings best expressed themselves, then translated
into simple and gracious English. This is the letter of Professor
George Brender, as offered to and refused (for reasons of policy) by The
Record, but published conspicuously by The Guardian:

_I have grown old and gray in the service of the German tongue and
German letters in America. One of the most vivid recollections of my
childhood is the positive declaration of the German elders that I was
not a German but an_ Amerikaner. _On the other hand, the Americans were
just as emphatic in their declaration that I was a German. Then the
“hyphen” came to the rescue and I blossomed out into a German-American
with a_ dicken Bind-estrich _(thick hyphen). Later I heard that the
Kaiser had given it as his opinion that there were only Germans and
Americans. The true Americans of my own country endorsed this point of
view. So I concluded that I would have to make a place in the sun for
myself.

And now, with the snow gathering on my hair, I am an American only:
nothing more (if there be such) and surely nothing less.

In my American heart there is and always will be a shrine dedicated to
that which came into my life from the soul of my father and mother. But
they have long ago gone into the land from which no traveler returns and
they have left a son who can love but one flag, although he has often
nailed the Star-Spangled Banner to a staff of good solid German oak.

I am now an old man, whose work is almost done. I cherish but one more
great hope--that on the stars and stripes of my country’s flag there
shall ultimately be written the gospel which will redeem the world--the
fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man._

When he had finished reading that letter, Jeremy Robson dropped his
head between his doubled fists and lost himself in thought. It was not
pleasant thought. Self-reproach was a burning element in it. Here was a
man German-born, German-bred, German by every tie of life except
the profounder bonds of conscience and patriotism, saying to the
German-Americans of Centralia, in no uncertain tones, that which he,
the editor of The Guardian, had had in mind to say--when the time should
come. And, behold, the time had come! Any hour in which a man great
of soul and clear of vision to meet the issue would speak out, was the
appointed hour. He, Jeremy Robson, despite all his good intentions
and brave promises, had procrastinated and paltered and dallied, while
another, with far more to lose, had lifted the banner and set it up for
a challenge to the disloyal, the unloyal, and the half-loyal. A sorry
enough champion Jeremy Robson seemed in his own eyes! Doubt of his
own courage, smothered under the pressing emergencies of the past few
months, lifted up a strident and whimpering voice. And that was a doubt
with which young Mr. Robson could not live on any terms.

When the threat of war had loomed, with the dismissal of the German
Ambassador, The Guardian had broached the project of a State Council of
Defense in a plain-spoken but moderate editorial. Further, it had urged
it upon the Governor who, with unaccustomed vacillation, had evaded and
procrastinated, arguing that the time was not yet ripe, and that the
plan would needlessly complicate matters. Naturally the more rabid
German press fell foul of it with their accustomed shrillness. Rather
than embarrass Embree at the time, Jeremy had refrained from following
up his first editorial, but had pressed the scheme upon the Governor by
private persuasions. Now, in the stir caused by Dr. Brender’s call to
the flag, he would bring it out again. If necessary he would force it
upon Embree, who could not well withstand a direct challenge to his
patriotism. He sketched out three leaders on the topic; then put them
aside and wrote the opening sentence of that editorial which was to
declare unequivocally the status of The Guardian. Thus to declare was to
declare war.

“The hyphen has two ends but no middle.”

Mild to the verge of banality, in wording. Yet the writer well
appreciated the high-explosive potency of that aphorism. Even without
what followed, it would be taken up as a defiance, the first open
defiance since Magnus Laurens’s speech, to the German-Americans of the
State. It would be the first step toward putting them on record. No
one knew better than the owner of The Guardian that upon the editor
who should first demand of the Centralia hyphenates that they declare
themselves as for or against the United States, who should assume the
initial responsibility for making the polyglot Commonwealth a house
divided against itself in treacherous and deadly enmities, the united
and deliberate vengeance of Deutschtum would fall in every practicable
form of reprisal. Sharp as was the offense he had heretofore given, it
was upon issues of minor import as compared to this. This was final.

When the emotions are deeply engaged, a practiced pen follows the
thought of the writer almost without interruption. At the conclusion of
his work, Jeremy read it over, altered a word or two, not in the way
of modification as is the tendency of re-casting, but from weaker to
stronger; then, after a moment’s thought, resumed his pencil and with
extreme care and neatness--as a young officer going into desperate
action might meticulously brush and set his uniform--inscribed the
caption, “Under Which Flag?”

He then did an unaccustomed thing. He made a complete tour of The
Guardian plant. Why, he could not have said, at the time. Afterward he
realized. It was the pride and satisfaction of proprietorship feeding
itself. Beneath it lay the unvoiced monition, warning him that it
might not be for long. Nevertheless, Jeremy was happy. He had been in a
defensive fight for a weary length of time. Now, at last, he had hit out
from the shoulder.

Transferred into typewriting at the hands (two-fingered at the exercise)
of Mr. Burton Higman, the editorial had gone upstairs. It returned,
galley-proof, in the hands of Nicholas Milliken.

“This yours?” he asked of the editor.

“Yes. Why?”

“Did n’t carry any O.K. For to-day?”

“Yes.”

Milliken lingered.

“Well?” said Jeremy sharply.

“Pretty hot stuff,” observed the Socialist. “It’ll start something.”

“It probably will.”

“Somebody pulled a couple of extra proofs on me.”

“Somebody? Who?”

“Dunno. Only I don’t want to be held responsible if they get out of the
office in advance.”

The proofs were already out of the office and on their way to the
Deutscher Club, a fact concerning which Mr. Milliken probably had his
shrewd suspicions, had he cared to voice them. But the hyphen editorial
was not destined to burst upon the German-American world of Fenchester
that day. For, at noon, Max Verrall entered the editor’s den, his brisk
eyes alight.

“Did the Governor get you?” he asked.

“No. What’s up?”

“State Council of Defense. He’s going to put it through. I’ve just seen
him.”

“Good business!”

“Better call him up. He’ll tell you more.”

Jeremy did not get the Governor, but his private secretary verified
Verrall’s report. “Yes. I’ve been trying to get you. The preliminary
conference is set for to-morrow at ten.”

“Short notice,” said Jeremy, surprised.

“Call’s gone out over the wires. Will you come to the Capitol this
evening to talk it over with the Governor?”

Jeremy assented. He imparted the good news to Andrew Galpin, whom he had
sent for to run over the hyphen editorial. “The State Council of Defense
is going through, Andy.”

“‘Smiling Mart’ has climbed off the fence, has he? Or did we push him
off?”

Jeremy frowned. “Nobody pushes Martin Embree.”

“All right, Boss,” conceded the other good-humoredly. “He can certainly
push himself ably when the occasion arises. I reckon this is part of his
push for the senator-ship.”

“Anyway, Andy, you’ll admit that this State Council move proves where he
stands on Americanism.”

“I’ll admit that,” said the cautious Galpin, “when I see it--in The
Guardian.”

“He’ll be all right,” said his supporter with conviction, “now that the
issue is getting clear.”

“What about your editorial, now?”

“Well, what about it?”

“Had n’t that better wait a day or two? You don’t want to muddy up the
water unnecessarily. If the State Council move is on the level, your
hyphen stuff will only make hard sledding for Embree.”

“That’s right, too. I’ll put it on the hold-over hook.” Arriving at the
Executive Office at seven-thirty, Jeremy was conscious of effort in the
Embreean smile, conscientiously directed upon him. That fine wave of the
gubernatorial hair, too, so suggestive of uplift in its stressful rise
from the broad, even forehead, seemed to droop a bit. Smiling Mart
Embree looked like a man who has passed the night in a sleepless torment
of the mind. “Any late news on the wires?” he asked anxiously.

“A little. All of one kind.”

“Pointing toward war?”

“War,” said the editor gravely.

“There must be some way out!” The Governor lost himself in a maze of
thought. “This is a terrible thing!” he muttered bitterly.

“It was bound to come.”

“A terrible thing,” repeated Embree, “for me.”

“For you?” Jem stared, startled at the out-cropping of egotism.

“For all of us,” hastily amended the other. “For the Nation.”

“I’m not so sure. It may be that we needed it, to save us from
ourselves.”

“What is one to do? How is a man to tell what course he can safely
take?” said the Governor, pursuing his own line of thought.

“It is n’t exactly a time for Safety First, is it? There’s only one
course for a decent American.”

“That’s so like you,” fretted the other. “You see your own side and
nothing else.”

“What else do you see?”

“I see this great State of Centralia which has chosen me for its chief
official,” retorted Embree with a touch of that exaltation which, his
enemies sneered, invariably crept into his speech when it dealt with his
political self. “I see it torn and racked from end to end, and aflame
with hatreds, dissension, and distrust. I see all the long fight that
I’ve made--that we have made--against corporation control of the State
gone for nothing in the new political issues. Have you thought of that?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“It does n’t matter.”

“Not matter!”

“Not if we go to war. Nothing else matters then but ourselves and
Germany. We’ve got to think of the country as a whole and of ourselves
just as a part of it.”

“Oh, I’m for the country!” proclaimed Embree. “Of course! But I’m not
for this war if it can be avoided.”

“It can’t be.”

“Not by any such hot-headed, reckless course as The Guardian is laying.
You’re doing everything but yell for war and the blood of your own
neighbors.”

Jeremy’s lip protruded obstinately. “Is that the view you take of it?
We’ll do more to-morrow.”

“For God’s sake, Jem! What has got into you? How can you commit yourself
to such a policy of savagery?”

“This is n’t going to be a polite war, Martin. But if I’m a savage, at
least I’ll be an American savage; not a German savage. That’s all we’re
committed to in The Guardian.”

“That’s too much. It is n’t the time for it.”

“Not when every national right has been violated?”

“Forget your newspaper rhetoric and listen to common sense. Jem, will
you be discreet for once in your editorial life?”

“I doubt it.”

“This is deadly serious. Listen: Congress is going to hear from the
country. Appeals are going to be made--”

“Which country?” asked Jeremy with intent.

“Try to be reasonable about this,” pleaded his friend. “These appeals
are going to pour in on Washington, to stop while there’s time.”

“More German propaganda. You’ve answered my question.”

“The demand of a peaceable people for peace,” controverted the Governor
heatedly. “At the same time the newspapers all over the country will
be urged to use their influence toward keeping us out of a war that can
mean nothing but injury to their business. We’ll show that blundering
fool in Washington--”

His visitor stiffened perceptibly in the chair. “Are you speaking of the
President of the United States?” he demanded.

“Oh, between four walls,” Embree deprecated. “Since when did you swing
around to the Schoolmaster?”

“Since he gave the word to close ranks.”

“He’s never given it. His whole attitude is a big bluff. The only danger
is that the hot-heads will make capital of it. He does n’t intend to go
through with it.”


“You’re wrong there.”

“If he does, he can’t do it. Congress has the final word. And Congress
is responsive to the newspapers. Now, Jem, when the arguments from the
other side come to The Guardian--”

“We’re being swamped with ’em already; machine-made letters to the
editor, fresh every hour from the Deutschtum factory.”

“Give them a fair show. Publish them.”

“I’ll see them damned first!”

“Neutrality!” commented the Governor acidly.

“War!” retorted the owner of The Guardian.

With an obvious effort “Smiling Mart” summoned his beam from out the
gloom and set it on guard again.

“When it comes to the pinch you’ll find me as ready to fight as
anybody,” he asserted. “The only difference between your position and
mine is that I want to be perfectly sure it’s right and inevitable.”

“The State Council of Defense is a long step in the right direction.”

“It must n’t be too long a step, though,” the Governor pointed out.
“It’s defense, not offense, that’s our purpose. By the way, do you know
that there is an old act of the Legislature empowering the Governor to
appoint such a body?”

“Fine!” said Jeremy heartily. “Then you can do the whole business at
to-morrow’s meeting.”

“Yes; but I thought it advisable to have the formal approval of a
State-wide representative body, such as I’ve called together, for the
moral effect--and the political,” he added.

“You’ve made it non-partisan?” asked Jeremy.

“Yes, yes! Of course! And representative; representative of all classes.
To make it so I’ve been obliged to include some of the German element.”

“Certainly. That’s all right, as long as they are n’t the ‘Deutschland
über Alles’ lot.”

“Some of them, I’m afraid, don’t like you much; or you them. Now, Jem,
don’t go off at half-cock,” he added persuasively as the other looked up
at him with a gleam of discomposure. “I can’t ignore my best political
friends and supporters, can I? And you know we have no sol-ider, more
influential citizens than our Germans.”

“But what about their loyalty?”

“Don’t expect too much of them right now. They’ll be all right when the
test comes.”

The editor thought it over.

“Yes; I get your point. If you go back on ’em now they’ll slaughter
you for the senatorship.” In spite of himself, “Smiling Mart” Embree
winced. “Well, a few of ’em in the conference, or even on the council,
can’t do any harm; in fact, it may serve to bring ’em around, unless
they’re too far gone. A lot depends on whom you appoint chairman.”

“What’s your idea on that?”

“Magnus Laurens.”

“Why a corporation grafter?” challenged the other, eyeing him narrowly;
“and one that’s always fought us and may fight us again for the
senatorship?”

“He is n’t a grafter.”

“He’s an associate of grafters.”

“And if he has fought us, he’s fought fair. Also, he’s one hundred per
cent American. That’s the big consideration in this matter. But if you
won’t stand for him, how about Corliess, of the Lake Belt Line. Cassius
Kimball vouches for him.”

Governor Embree stared. “First a water-power baron and then a
public-utilities manipulator,” he commented. “You’re chumming up with
some queer friends, for a radical, Jem.”

“They’re no friends of mine,” retorted the editor. “You know that. But
they’re men we can trust to be right on this war question. However,
any one will do, provided he’s big enough, loyal to the bone, and
representative.”

“Leave it to me, Jem,” said the Governor with his warmest smile.

Returning to his den for the purpose of preparing an editorial boosting
the new project as an accomplished fact, Jeremy saw a light in the
business office. Amid ledgers and files of The Guardian sat Andy Galpin,
figuring profusely upon sheets of paper.

“Hello, Boss!” was his greeting. “I’m trying to find out where we stand
now.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Hard sledding; but we’ll pull through. Always supposing that the dam’
Botches’--thus, now, did the general manager at once anathematize
and Americanize that element whose solidity and good citizenship all
political parties so warmly and officially endorsed--‘don’t lift too
much of our advertising, in return for your few well-chosen remarks upon
the hyphen. They’ll be after us hot-foot, sure.” After a pause he added:
“They’ve been working on ‘Smiling Mart.’”

“It has n’t done them much good so far.”

“On Verrall, too. He’s so far up in the air that his nose is turning
blue. And something’s up in the press-room. I think it’s that big
gorilla, Girdner. He’s a Botch; belongs to their club. Milliken; he’s
another trouble-hunter. The Socialist. Wish I could pin something on
him and fire him. Well, you’ve got troubles enough without that. Sorry I
spoke.... Have a pleasant evening with the Governor?”

“Pleasant enough.”

“Hope the morning will be as good,” retorted Galpin, and hunched himself
back into his calculations.




CHAPTER IX

THE hyphen editorial spent the following morning on the hook. Its
author gave it an affectionate and yearning glance as he passed early
to his desk to touch up his substitute leader on the State Council of
Defense. Once fully determined upon the casting of his verbal bomb, he
was eager for the explosion and the resultant battle which should end
the armed truce. But, as Andrew Galpin had said, fair play demanded that
he hold off now, lest he hamper the development of the Governor’s new
plan. Any time was suitable for his challenge. Meanwhile copies of
it from the stolen galleys had been circulated among the elect of
Deutschtum, and a synopsis taken to Governor Embree. He had bidden his
informants not to worry. There would be no occasion for the publication
of that screed. A plan was already completed which would take care
of Mr. Robson. It was observed that the Governor looked weary but
optimistic.

Short though the notice had been, the invited conferees responded to
the official call for a meeting upon the State Council of Defense
plan, almost unanimously. It was a curiously assorted gathering that
surrounded the long table in the council room, when Jeremy Robson
arrived, a trifle late from his work of re-casting the day’s page. That
it was broadly representative was beyond denial. Yet as the newcomer
reckoned it up, he felt a more than vague uneasiness.

Appropriating the nearest vacant chair he found himself between a
down-state lawyer and politician named Lerch on one side, and Cassius
Kimball, of The Bellair Journal, on the other. Next to Kimball sat State
Senator Bredle from Embree’s county, beyond him a lake-district dairyman
of indeterminate political sympathies, and then Gordon Fliess, of
the Fliess Brewing Company, the Lieutenant-Governor, an imposing and
obsequious puppet of the Governor’s, and Ernst Bauer of the Marlittstown
Herold und Zeitung. Bunched at the upper end of the table were an
ill-assorted trio of The Guardian’s enemies, Montrose Clark, Judge Dana,
and that anomaly of Teutonic type-reversion, Robert Wanser, grandson of
the Young Germany of ’48.

In the other direction, the prospect was no less puzzling nor more
reassuring. Half a dozen men from the Southern Tier, a section
unfamiliar to Jeremy, suggested a predominance of the Swedish type,
which, in Centralia, meant anti-war sentiment. Concerning the next
figure, tall, plethoric, ceremonially garbed, there was at least
no uncertainty. Emil Bausch’s local letter-writing bureau of German
propaganda was at that moment represented in The Guardian’s
waste-basket by half a dozen grossly pro-German and subtly anti-American
communications to the editor. Bausch had for neighbor that fire-eating
Seminarian, the Reverend Theo Gunst, next to whom, in turn, sat Arthur
Betts, of Kelter & Betts, looking uncomfortable but flattered. Milliken,
presumptively representing the Socialist element, flanked him on the far
side with Girdner, appearing for Labor, on his left.

But when Jeremy’s anxious glance finally reached the Governor’s high
chair he breathed a temporary sigh of relief. In the place of honor, on
the right of the gubernatorial smile, sat Magnus Laurens. Surely that
indicated an acceptance by Embree of Jeremy’s argument; Laurens was to
be appointed chairman of the council, after all. The Governor’s left was
occupied by Ensign, the millionaire absentee owner of The Record. In a
less crowded moment Jeremy would have given some thought to this curious
preferment. Directly across the table from the central group there
protruded loftily from between a pursy judge and a northwestern
corn-raiser, a figure tall, stiff, and meager, a lean, hard-wood lath of
a man lost in the dim, untroubled contemplation of an awful example of
political portraiture on the far wall. Why Professor Rappelje should
have been included, Jeremy could not surmise, unless it was that
Governor Embree could count upon him as an unquestioning follower
through thick and thin. In fact the whole composition of the meeting
suggested that the summons had been apportioned with a view to safe
control by the Governor.

To the watchful Jeremy it seemed that Governor Embree was nervous. The
smile at the corners of the conciliatory lips was disturbed by a restless
twitching. After an anxiously calculating glance over the assemblage he
began to read from a typed sheet a preamble, concluding: “Therefore, I
present for the consideration of this honorable body the following names
to constitute the Centralia State Council of Defense.”

The first nomination fell upon Jeremy’s ears like a burst of thunder. It
was that of Emil Bausch, chairman.

The second nomination fell upon his brain like a bludgeon. It was that
of Jeremy Robson, vice-chairman.

From down the table he caught the confirmatory sneer of Montrose Clark.
His eyes darted to Magnus Laurens, squarest and most honorable of
enemies, and met in his face a wrathful contempt. Cassius Kimball leaned
to him and whispered:

“First you knew of it?”

“Yes.”

“He’s put it over on you.”

Jeremy sat in a daze. His mind was confused by the suddenness of the
thrust; his will was blurred. Instinctively he felt that he must do
something. But what? Protest? Decline to serve? Announce his attitude?
And already his time was past! The monotonous, fateful reading had gone
beyond him.

Wanser and Fliess, Kimball, Laurens, ex-Governor Scudder, Montrose Clark,
the Reverend Theo Gunst, Lieutenant-Governor Maxwell, Ensign, Bredle,
Girdner, Ivanson, the Swede, and so on with the German and pacifist
element always slightly but safely in the majority. Not a word was
spoken, except once when in a brief breathing-pause some one shot out,
like an arrow through the tense quiet, the contemptuous monosyllable:

“Packed!”

Jeremy thought that he identified the voice as that of Judge Selden
Dana. Then the reader pronounced the name of Professor Harvey Rappelje.

“Wait!” said that gentleman.

“Order! Order!” protested Wanser and Bausch with suspicious readiness.

“I am in order,” retorted the economist, rising in his place to confront
the Governor opposite.

The Governor smiled, but thrust out a nervous tongue and licked the
corners of the smile. The professor’s face was as set and still as
a frozen river, and much the same color. Embree, motioning with a
placating hand for silence, resumed: “The Honorable Carter N. Rock--”

“Wait!” The scholar’s keener voice cut off the reading. “I rise to a
point of order, sir.”

“State the point.”

“Governor Embree, is that your honest conception of a council to fight
this war?”

“Out of order!” cried Bausch again, and was reinforced by Girdner,
Fliess, and others. “Who said fight?”

“We are not making war.”

“Keep to the point.”

“Discussion is not in order.”

“Sit down.”

But the hard challenge of the professor’s glare compelled the Governor.
“It is my carefully considered selection,” said he with a suggestion of
sulkiness.

There leapt from Rappelje’s lips a blasting oath. From any mouth in that
environment it would have been startling. From the lean dry, silent,
repressed scholar it had something of the shock of nature’s forces in
outbreak. Not less appalling was the single word to follow:

“Treason!”

Embree’s smile did not fade; but it shriveled into a masklike grimace,
the rictus of a child before the convulsion racks it.

“You--you will retract--” he began chokingly.

Two astounding tears welled from the scholar’s pale eyes, tears of a
still man’s uttermost fury.

“I will demonstrate to you,” said he precisely, “what it is to fight.”

He launched himself across the table at the Governor’s throat.

The steel-framed Laurens seized and forced him back; but not before
Embree had collapsed into his chair. From his place, up the table,
the Lieutenant-Governor, quite beside himself, squealed for a totally
imaginary sergeant-at-arms. The corn-belt farmer, in thunderous tones
with a wailing inflection besought any and all not to forget that they
were gentlemen. Girdner, huge and formidable, had jumped to his feet.
The white-haired, alert Milliken caught up a heavy paper-weight. Bausch
was solemnly, almost sacrificially taking off his coat. A medley of
voices demanded “Order!”

“Throw him out!”

“Arrest him!” There were all the elements of a lively and scandalous
mêlée, waiting only the fusing act.

Laurens checked it with one sufficient threat. Brandishing the
weighty official gavel of lignum vitæ, he stood, a modern Thor, in
the unconscious pose and with the menace of the Berseker, and, in a
full-throated bellow proclaimed:

“I’ll brain the first man that strikes a blow.”

Before that intimidation they dropped into their chairs. There was a
ripple of the shamed and foolish laughter of self-realization as the
strain eased. The warrior-scholar’s neighbors, who had been holding him
in his chair, felt his limbs relax, and mistakenly thinking his effort
spent, released him. Instantly he rose.

“I apologize to this honorable body,” he said with quiet courtesy, “and
to the State of Centralia as represented by its chief executive. And, as
a question of privilege preliminary to my resignation, I ask whether the
list as read is to stand.”

“I will not submit to be bulldozed or intimidated,” declared the
Governor huskily.

“The list stands?” persisted the other.

“It stands, subject to the approval of this body.”

“Doubtless you can carry it,” conceded the objector, ranging the
assemblage with his clear and contemptuous glance.

“Vote,” piped up an uncertain and tentative voice.

“But you would be well advised not to make the attempt.”

Martin Embree conceived that the proper course now was to ignore this
unforeseen assailant of his plan. “I will proceed with the reading,” he
announced.

“I beg your pardon,” said the relentless and polite voice. “One moment.
You will have until this evening to withdraw your list.”

“And vot then? Vot then?” broke in Emil Bausch, thrusting upward a
truculent face.

“Do you want civil war in this State?” challenged Fliess.

“If necessary,” retorted Rappelje, and stared him down with a steady and
intolerable eye. He turned again to the Governor. “Unless that list is
withdrawn before night, Martin Embree,” said he solemnly, “so help me
the God of my country, I will raise the University and hang you to the
highest tree on the campus.”

[Illustration: 0351]

He made a stiff, formal, absurd little jerk of a bow and marched from
the room.

“By gosh! He’s the boy could do it,” confirmed Milliken in an
unexpectedly cheerful chirp.

“Finish the reading,” said somebody weakly.

“Vote! Vote!” came a mutter of several voices.

No vote was taken. Under the corroding acid of the professor’s passion
the fabric of that meeting’s purpose dissolved. The session did not
adjourn. It disintegrated. Jeremy Robson stood irresolute as the groups
edged past him.

“Congratulations, Mr. Vice-Chairman,” purred Montrose Clark. It was the
first time since the interview about the note that he had conceded the
fact of the editor’s existence.

“Bad politics, my boy! Bad politics!” said Judge Dana, his head wagging
with reprehension, but a malicious twinkle in his somnolent eyes.

Cassius Kimball set a friendly hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “Pretty shrewd
of old Martin, eh?” he observed. “But we can square that, among us. Let
me know what you want The Journal to do.”

Jeremy nodded his gratitude, but did not move. Laurens was the man he
wanted to see, to set himself right before. Moreover, with him as leader
a counter-stroke could be planned to bring Embree to his senses. The
viking form strode toward him.

“Mr. Laurens,” began Jeremy, “I want--”

“Stand out of my way!” warned the magnate, and swerving not an inch
from his stride, he jostled the other aside. But for Kimball’s quick
interposition Jeremy’s fury would have launched him upon the insulter.

“Steady!” soothed that experienced diplomat. “You come outside with me,
and cool off.”

“No,” said Jeremy, mastering himself. “I’ve got to wait. I’ve got to see
the Governor.”

“But has he got to see you?” inquired the other suggestively.

“He has,” said Jeremy with grim positiveness. Governor Embree had
closeted himself with Wanser, Bausch, and Fliess. He sent out word that
he would see Mr. Robson in half an hour.

Jeremy telephoned to Andrew Galpin to hold the editorial page make-up
open. He strolled to the window and got an unpleasant shock. Montrose
Clark, Judge Dana, and Nicholas Milliken were standing in earnest
conference, near one of the park benches. The Socialist, the public
utilitarian grafter, and the legal manipulator! It came back to Jeremy’s
mind that, according to Galpin, there was a leak of information from The
Guardian office to the Fenchester Public Utilities Corporation. Milliken
was perhaps the go-between, unlikely though such an association might
seem, at first thought. He would speak to Galpin about it. Meantime he
had another editorial to outline, and set about it, seated at the table
across which the first real action of the war in Centralia had just been
fought to an indeterminate result.

A buzz of guttural voices inside the door interrupted him. Glancing at
the clock he was astonished to see that it marked twenty minutes of one.
The half-hour had grown into more than an hour. An inner door opened and
the waiting man heard Smiling Mart Embree’s weary but clear-toned “That
can wait, gentlemen.” The Germans passed Jeremy, Wanser giving him
a civil word and Bausch nodding sardonically, as one might to a
none-too-welcome accomplice by compulsion.

“Come in, Jem,” summoned the Governor, and the editor of The Guardian
advanced to confront his longtime friend, aide, and ally.




CHAPTER X


ADMIRATION was Jeremy’s first impulse as he faced

Martin Embree. The man had so quickly and surely recovered his poise.
Serenity was in his tired smile, and the assurance that from Jeremy he
would have understanding and sympathy. To destroy that childlike and
beaming confidence was a thing smacking of brutality. Jeremy fought off
a temptation to temporize and went to the point at once.

“Why did you appoint me vice-chairman without consulting me in advance?”

The Governor’s smile became both confident and confiding. “Because
you’re the man for the place. We need you there.”

“Or because you thought it would tie my hands.”

“Tie your hands?”

“Keep The Guardian quiet.”

“The Guardian has to keep quiet, anyway. It’s the only course open to
it.”

“Is it?” said Jeremy significantly.

“Is n’t it? Reason it out for yourself. Either we’re going to get into
this war or we’re going to keep out of it.”

“We’re going to get into it.”

“I don’t believe it. But admit that we are. Until we’re in it, it’s our
business, those of us who have influence, to use it in keeping peace at
home.”

“While the Germans at home work out Germany’s plans.”

“Bosh! Germany’s real plans are to keep this nation at peace. She does
n’t want us in the war. And we certainly don’t want to get in.”

“No. We don’t want to. But we’re being forced to.”

“Wait until the real underlying public sentiment asserts itself.”

“It’s asserting itself now.”

“No, no, Jem. Jingoism always makes the loud noise. But jingoism is n’t
Americanism. The one thing America won’t do is to go into a losing war.”

“We can make it a winning war.”

“If it were truly our war, we could. But the people are n’t for it. They
never will be for it. Now look at the situation in this State, in the
light of what is coming in Europe. Germany is sure to win. This State
splits about even now between German sympathizers and the others
represented by the pro-British and those who don’t really know where
they do stand. Only, the Germans have got the solidarity and the others
are divided.”

“You’re right in that, anyway.”

“Very well. After Germany has won, it’ll be all pro-German here. That’s
our American way of it. We’re all for success. Then where will a
newspaper be that has taken the losing side?”

“Can’t you see, Martin, that we’re practically in the war now?”

“Jingo talk! If the capitalist crowd could drive us into it we’d be in
now. It’s the duty of good Americans, and particularly of every American
newspaper, to stand solid against it.”

“Is that the principle on which you appointed your State Council of
Defense?”

“Of course it is! I’ve drafted a body of men who can be trusted not
to rush us madly into this damnable mess. That’s our real, our best
possible defense--to keep at peace.”

“Very pretty sophistry! How far do you think it would go with a real
American? Harvey Rappelje, for instance?”

The Governor’s eager face darkened. “That crazy fool!” he blurted out.
“Who could have foreseen that he’d break over!”

“He did what each of us ought to have done in his turn.”

“Don’t say that, Jem!” implored the other. “I’m about beside myself over
this Rappelje business now.”

“Afraid?” Jeremy looked at him curiously.

“Of his mad-dog threat? No.”

“Yet the boys at Old Central would follow him in anything. Curious that
such a type should take hold on the youngsters’ imagination, isn’t it?
It’s the fire at the heart of him, I suppose.”

“The maggot in his brain!” returned the other fiercely. “He’s crazy
enough to try his mob scheme.”

“If he tries, he’ll carry it through.”

“Against a company of the National Guard?” said the official
contemptuously. “I could have them here in ten minutes.”

“That would mean bloodshed.”

“It’s what I dread. Some of those young idiots might be killed.”

“And their ghosts rise up between you and the senatorship,” pointed out
Jeremy. “If the charge of official murder were raised against you, it
would kill your chances. Rappelje may have figured that out, though I
would n’t suppose he’d be so keen in politics.”

Black shadows of brooding settled upon Embree’s handsome face.

“I’ll arrest that frantic fool of a professor,” he muttered. “I’ll
arrest him now. Nobody can call me a traitor!”

Jeremy made up his mind, and struck:

“Can’t they? Read to-night’s Guardian.”

“T-t-to-night’s--Wh-wh-what!” stuttered Embree. “Jem! You’re not going
back on me?”

“Going back on you! Have n’t you gone back on me? Have n’t you gone back
on the State? On the country? Did n’t you pledge yourself to appoint a
representative American Council of Defense? Where did you get your list?
By cable from Berlin?”

“What are you trying to do? Provoke a fight?” retorted the other
fiercely.

“Make you wipe out that council of Germans.”

“I won’t be bulldozed and blackmailed!” shouted Embree in the loud wrath
of a weak man cornered.

“Then it’s the lynching party and the end of you politically. We’ll have
an interview with Rappelje in this evening’s paper. He’ll talk. That
silent kind always do, once they break over.”

The Governor collapsed.

“Wait!” he pleaded. “Give me time to think.”

He walked to the window and stared out toward the east--his
Mecca--Washington. When he turned, his face was so haggard that Jeremy
felt a stab of remorse; but Embree contrived to summon the fleeting
wraith of that once bounteous smile.

“You’ve got me,” he admitted. “I’ll make another list. Wait while I
outline it.”

“No. I’ve got to go to the office.”

“Come back here in an hour, then. I’ll have it ready.” The hour Jeremy
put in in outlining to Galpin and Verrall the probable new course of the
paper. Galpin was grimly pleased.

“I knew we’d have to quit him.”

“It’s the end of the paper,” prophesied Verrall, pale and shaken.

Governor Embree was almost his normal self with almost his normal smile,
when Jeremy returned to the Capitol. His revised list was one which
needed no defense. It was preponderantly American, though with many
of the prominent German names left, it is true, and the addition of
Professor Brender and another loyal German-American. Magnus Laurens
had been substituted for Bausch as chairman. Jeremy’s name remained as
vice-chairman. “Is that good enough?” asked the Governor.

“Yes. That’s a real Council of Defense.”

“Then The Guardian will stand for it?”

“To the finish.”

Smiling Mart Embree swallowed hard and beamed anxiously upon the other.

“What about me?”

“No.” The negative was bluntly final.

“My God, Jem! What more could you ask?”

“A leader who can be trusted to be American.”

“This is the parting of the ways, then?”

“The finish.” Something in Jeremy’s throat was hurting him so that
he could hardly speak. And he could not, for anything, look at Martin
Embree. Then Embree made it easier for him.

“And after all the years I’ve stood by you!” he cried angrily. “You
turncoat! You don’t know what loyalty is!”

“I’ve got pretty definite notions as to disloyalty.” Embree seized a pen
and crossed Jeremy’s name off the revised list, with a pen that ripped
through the paper.

“All right,” said the victim evenly. “Who goes in as vice-chairman?”

“That’s for me to say.”

“You’re still expecting The Guardian to support the council?”

Embree’s throat contracted with impotent fury. “I’ll put in Clarence
Ensign.”

An impulse of pity rose within the other. “You can’t do anything with
The Record crowd, Martin,” he said. “How can they play your game? I
don’t suppose you’re going back on your corporation policies.”

“No, I’m not. But you--”

“Not a bit of it. We’ll be with you on that.”

“With me, after you’ve stuck a knife in me!” The conviction of having
suffered unmerited wrong, ever at call in an egoist’s soul, surged to
Embree’s pale lips. “You’ve sold out to the corporation gang. That’s
what you’ve done,” he accused. “You’ve sold me out.”

The bitter and withered face of the man who had been his friend
oppressed Jeremy with a sense of tragedy.

“Good-bye, Mart,” he said. “I’m sorry it--it had to be this way.”

“You have cause. You’ll be sorrier.” The smile was a little crooked
now, with a hint of fangs at the corner. “I’m a poor forgetter, Robson.
Particularly when it’s my friends who betray me,” he added, calling out
the last words after the departing visitor.

So there was no interview with Professor Rappelje in that evening’s
paper. Nor did any account of the vivacious proceedings of the
conference appear. These the editor of The Guardian deemed to be
confidential. Nevertheless, there was no dearth of interesting matter in
that issue. The announcement of the State Council of Defense personnel
stirred up hearty approval among a large element and grievous surprise
and wrath in other quarters. Further to enrage the aggrieved Germans,
The Guardian’s clear challenge, “Under Which Flag?” retrieved at the
last moment from the hook and double-leaded for emphasis, set the two
ends of the hyphen to bristling mutually, and surcharged the air with
more electricity than it could comfortably contain.

In its next issue, The Guardian sprang another sensation by formally
forswearing its support of Governor Embree. Its leader for the day,
under the heading “He Who is Not For Us is Against Us,” established
a local and definitive test of Americanism, and declared all other
questions and issues subordinate to the critical interests of the Nation
as a whole. The Guardian would remain steadfast to the internal policies
and reforms which Governor Embree had instituted. It could not and
would not support him for the United States Senate, believing, as it
must, that to elect him would be to place a putative enemy agent in that
body.

Martin Embree answered through the columns of The Record. The slanderous
assertions of The Guardian, he stated, would later be cited for proof
before the courts. The Record gave him two mildly supporting editorials,
but did nothing to indicate an alliance. Thus Embree was forced to enter
the crucial campaign of his political career without local editorial
support. At the same time The Bellair Journal quit him.

The greater necessity that he should keep himself before the public in
the news. His projected libel suit against The Guardian would be one
method. After considerable delay the suit was filed.

But here again the unlucky politician missed fire. Nobody paid much
heed to his libel action. For, on the day when it was instituted,
the patience of a long-enduring President and people broke and the
Government of the United States of America bared the sword between the
flag and its insulters overseas.




CHAPTER XI

HOW essential a prop Martin Embree’s influence had been to the
threatened fortunes of The Guardian, its editor was now to learn.
Where, hitherto, the paper had offended, “Smiling Mart” had palliated,
explained, excused, defended, spreading the soothing oil of his
diplomacy with expert healing. Now the bland oil was supplanted by salt
to rub into the wounds. At this, too, the Governor plied a master-hand.
The “firebrand” interview, given to the papers of the State, in which
he solemnly and all but officially anathematized The Guardian as
an incendiary and anarchical agency, rallied the forces of
peace-at-any-price and helped to organize them for the ruin of The
Guardian. This was in the interval between the establishment of the
State Council of Defense and the declaration of war, a period
when Centralia still blundered about in a fog of delusion, blindly
discrediting the inevitable.

Vainly a few dailies strove to force the truth upon them; The Bellair
Journal, The Guardian, a handful of lesser papers. It was to be read
between the lines of the German-language press, exhorting their people
to be firm of spirit and stand together whatever might betide, warning
them that British agencies were in control of the Administration, openly
flouting and vilifying the Government of the Nation at a time when
politicians of all parties but the Kaiser’s had forgotten every
consideration but loyalty, extolling and exalting Germany, snarling at
the military “pretensions” of the United States, appealing to racial
divisions in a last-hour attempt to devitalize the war-spirit. But the
Centralians, breathing the murky air of their pacifists’ paradise, were
in no mood to read between the lines. For them the assurances of the
great bulk of their newspapers sufficed. These, either themselves
deceived, or fearful of reprisals, or simply accepting that old-time
tenet of the pander “Give the public what it wants,” would not admit the
possibility of this Nation’s being drawn into the struggle. War? Those
who prophesied it were fools playing with fire. They were in Wall
Street’s pay. They were traitors to a peace-loving people. And
Centralia, for the most part, read and believed.

All that man could do to foster this creed, Martin Embree did. To do
him justice, he did not admit to himself the imminence of the conflict.
His was the type of mind, characteristic of the self-centered, which
translates hopes into expectations and expectations into belief. On
the whole he thought the time and opportunity favorable for a brief,
preparatory campaign for the senatorship. On anti-war, pro-German
sentiment combined, he felt sure that he could ride to victory, when
the time came, atop the crest of an irresistible wave. He made a
short speaking tour in the Northern Tier, where The Guardian as his
representative organ had so prospered. Wherever he now appeared, The
Guardian’s circulation withered. He had but to quote from the “Under
Which Flag?” editorial, with such intonations as he well knew how to
impart, and the Teutonic fury of his audiences did the rest.

At home in Fenchester the paper showed a slight but steady loss of
circulation. Verrall went about the office looking, as Andrew Galpin
indignantly observed, “like a sob-sister on reduced salary.” The
circulation and advertising manager was frankly of opinion that The
Guardian was done for. If the hyphen outbreak were not, in itself,
enough, the split with Governor Embree was the final madness. Personally
he maintained unbroken relations with the Governor. He did not despair,
he told Galpin, of bringing about a practicable adjustment if not
an actual reconciliation between The Guardian and Embree. How was the
Governor to mature his senatorial plans without at least one important
newspaper through which to express himself? he argued. The Bellair
Journal, never reliably loyal, was now violently opposing him. The
Record was out of the question on the political side. He needed The
Guardian and The Guardian needed him. The thing ought to be fixed up--he
put it squarely to Galpin. Could n’t it be fixed up?

Galpin, regarding him with a sinister eye, opined that it might, what
time fried snowballs were a popular breakfast food in Sheol.

Since the publication of the fateful editorial the Deutscher Club had
been, officially, mute. Even though, in a later effort from Editor
Robson’s pen, it had been invited to gladden the eyes of Fenchester by
displaying the Stars and Stripes above its building, it made no retort.
Neither did it display the Stars and Stripes. It was quietly busy with
other considerations.

“The Botches are at it,” announced Galpin one morning.

“What’s their line of action?”

“Boycott. The Deutscher Club is running it.”

“Old stuff, Andy.”

“Not this. They’ve got a committee and an organized campaign.”

“Print their names,” suggested the editor with a cheery but baleful
smile.

“In a minute if I could get ’em! They are n’t so brash as all that.
It’s all very pussy-footed. Nothing to put your hands on legally.”

“How are they working it?”

“House-to-house canvass, I’m told. That would fit in with our
circulation returns. We’re shy about eight hundred right here in town,
Boss. They’re claiming fifteen hundred.”

“Claims won’t hurt us.”

“Don’t you believe they won’t! They’re going to our advertisers. The
Record is in on it.”

“Naturally. They could use some added advertising space if they could
get it away from us.”

“They’re getting it; a little. They’ll get more if we hold up to our
present rates. The Retailers’ Association had that up in meeting again,
and we’ll probably hear one of their mild suggestions about a reduction
soon.”

“They don’t get it!” said Jeremy angrily.

“No. If we let down now, we’ll be on the slide. Besides, we sure need
the money. Those libel suits of Dana & Dana are going to cost something.
They’re juggling ’em that way.”

“Any other cheer-up news to-day, Andy?”

“No-o. Nothing special. We’re up against a new paper contract. Verrall’s
looking after that. Something’s going on under the surface in the
press-room. Maybe the Deutscher Club has a committee at work there, too.
I’d like to catch ’em at it--with a press-hammer handy,” he concluded,
licking his lips. “It would n’t hurt my feelings at all to have to
slaughter a few Botches.”

“Well, you may get your chance. Andy, what would you do if war were
declared?”

“Who? Me? Get out a special, with the American flag all over it, if it
was at 3 A.M.”

“That is n’t what I mean. What would you do personally?”

The general manager’s face fell. “Nothing. I couldn’t. No good.” He
stretched his long and powerful arms and gazed at them sorrowfully. “Old
lumber, Boss. They would n’t take me.” He touched his injured eye.

“No!” exclaimed Jeremy. “That’s tough. Are you sure?”

“Tried it. No go.”

“Tried it?” returned Jeremy, surprised. “How? When?”

“Went to Doc Summerfield. He’s been down on the border. Knows the game.
He said no go right away. Not a chance.”

“So you did that,” mused Jeremy with growing wonder. “You never peeped
to me about it.”

“Did n’t want to bother you.”

“I’m mighty sorry for you, Andy,” said his chief. “But I’m mighty glad
for The Guardian. We need you here. And we’re going to need you worse.”

“How’s that?” The other looked up with swift suspicion.

“Andy, you could take hold and run The Guardian if--”

“Not by a dam’ sight!” shouted Andrew Galpin. “_You_ can’t quit. Not
now.”

“But if it comes to war--”

“_This_ is your war. You’ve got your fighting cut out for you right
here. It’s a dandy scrap if there ever was one.”

“It is n’t the same.”

“Ay-ah! Sure it is n’t. Has n’t got the headline stuff in it. ‘Gallant
Young Editor Goes to War.’ Hey? Is that what you’re after?”

Jeremy sat silent, disconcerted by the bitterness and anger in his
associate’s voice.

“You were going, if you could.”

Again Andy winced. “That’s different. You could run the paper without
me--”

“Not for a week!”

“You’re saying that to make me feel better about it. Jem, you _can’t_
quit. This is your job.”

“Until a bigger one turns up.”

“There is n’t any bigger one,” retorted his general manager with
profound conviction.

In the ensuing days it seemed to the owner of The Guardian that there
could be no more racking one. For, step by step, as war drew nearer,
the revenues of The Guardian declined. The secret committee work of the
Deutscher Club was as effective as it was quiet. Uncertainty in business
conditions was producing a logical letup in advertising, and the
boycott was borrowing impetus from this tendency. A committee from
the Retailers’ Association had approached Jeremy on the subject of
a reduction of rates. He had retorted hotly upon them that they were
making themselves the agents of an attack upon The Guardian because of
its Americanism. Matthew Ellison had attempted to smooth matters over
with a “business is business” plea; but Ahrens, of the Northwestern
Stores, had sneered at The Guardian for making capital out of cheap
jingoism, and the session had ended in taunts and recriminations.
Its echo had followed in the loss of some minor advertisements. The
department stores, however, could not yet bring themselves to abjure so
valuable a medium, no matter how defiant its attitude. Business _was_
business to that extent.

Meantime Jeremy, amidst all his worries and troubles, was conscious of
a great and unwonted inner peace. He was doing his job as it came to him
to be done. The present was engrossed in the fight, growing sterner and
more demanding day by day. His future was clear before him. He knew what
course he must steer. If The Guardian were driven upon the rocks, or
rather if the submarines got her (he grinned with cheerful determination
over this preferred metaphor), at least she would go down fighting,
and the flag that she had flown would be caught up from the flood and
carried on. Wavering and uncertain notes from that quaint herald-figure,
heading its pages, were a thing of the past. At last it had “sounded
forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat.” And, when the crash
came, he, Jeremy, could find refuge in his country’s armed service. That
was an unfailing comfort.

More potently sustaining, even, than this was the thought that the dear
and distant and unforgotten reader of The Guardian overseas must, now
and to the end, believe in it.




CHAPTER XII

UNDER the far shock of declared war, the sovereign State of Centralia,
unready and unrealizing, was rent and seamed from border to border with
seismic chasms across which brother bandied threats with brother,
and lifelong friends clamored for each other’s blood. Politicians and
newspapers, who live chiefly (and uneasily) by grace of public favor,
stepped warily among racial pitfalls set with envenomed stakes. Having
so befooled the public, and in thus doing lulled themselves to a false
security, they were now in a parlous state, not daring to affront
a nation in arms, fearful of the unmeasured power of their alien
supporters, afraid alike of truth, falsehood, and silence.

But it was the dear-bought privilege and luxury of The Guardian in these
great days to speak that which was in its owner’s soul. Straight and
clear it spoke, while for the first fortnight after the declaration the
editor hurried about the State organizing the trustworthy newspapers
into a compact league of patriotism, meantime living, sleeping, and
writing on trains, in automobiles, in country hotels, those editorial
battle-cries that variously rasped, enthused, infuriated, or inspired,
but always stirred and roused, the divided and doubting people of
Centralia.

After the first stunned inaction and uncertainty of surprise, there
crept through the German communities of the United States a waif word of
strange import.

“Deutschtum is bent, but not broken.”

From mouth to mouth it passed. It was spoken in German clubs and
societies. It was proclaimed in lodge-rooms. Presently it appeared in
print. Bauer’s alien-hearted Herold und Zeitung published it once and
again; first, cautiously, tentatively; the second time, building upon
its own impunity, and the incredible tolerance of the stupid Yankees,
repeating it as the text of an editorial word of good cheer for
struggling Germany--with whom the United States was at war! The Reverend
Theo Gunst’s religious weekly spread the rallying cry; and fervent
theologians preached it in its own tongue from their pulpits. Soon it
had permeated the whole German fabric of Centralia, with its message of
aid and comfort to the enemy: “Deutschtum is bent, but not broken!”

And the Deutschtum of Centralia, unbroken and scarcely bent, set about
fulfilling its vengeance upon The Guardian and Jeremy Robson.

The first attack was a blast of letters, signed and anonymous.
Correspondence enough was daily piled upon the editorial desk of The
Guardian to have occupied all of Jeremy’s time had he undertaken to
answer it. Most of it was denunciation, protest, warning, threat.
Several weak-kneed politicians, followers of “Smiling Mart” Em-bree’s
political fortunes, had written pressingly for appointments, evincing
in every line their perturbation lest The Guardian’s course might
compromise them in one way or another. One correspondent had contented
himself with a spirited but unsigned free-hand drawing of a noose
overhanging a skull and crossbones.

In the middle of the heap was a brief and simple note of commendation
for The Guardian’s course, from the hardest-worked, most sorely pressed
and anxious man in America. It was headed: “The White House.” All but
this Jeremy shoveled into the waste-basket; then plunged into his work
with renewed spirit. The anonymous threats had cheered him only less
than the President’s word. They showed that his work was striking home.

Uncertainty was what Jeremy found hardest to endure in those days. And
the local advertising situation seemed to be about fifty-one per cent
uncertainty, and the other forty-nine probable loss. Contracts both
yearly and half-yearly were renewable on May 1st. There appeared to be
an almost universal indisposition on the part of the local stores to
commit themselves to any definite figures or estimates in advance. In
the case of the German advertisers, or of the few which still maintained
rancor against The Guardian because of its independence in business
matters, this was quite explicable. But no such reasons applied in the
case of the large majority which were holding off. Nothing in the way of
enlightenment could be elicited from Verrall. He “did n’t understand it
at all.” He’d “done his best.” Business was “very uncertain.” Probably
that was it. They were waiting to see the effect of the war. If any one
should be in a position to make a guess, Verrall was the man; for he was
spending enough of his time among the stores. At least he was certainly
not spending it at his desk.

Extra work was thus thrown upon the overworked Galpin. No dependence
could be placed upon Jeremy from day to day now. At any hour, the
demands of State-wide newspaper organization were likely to call him
away from town, and relegate to Galpin all of his duties other than
the actual writing of editorials. There were mornings when the general
manager would arrive at the office before eight o’clock to find three
hours’ work by his chief already completed and on his desk with a note:
“Meetings at Fairborn and Rocola to-day and to-morrow. Back Thursday.”
 To be obliged to handle part of Verrall’s desk job also, in these
circumstances, struck the patient and dogged Galpin as excessive.
Besides, there were matters in Verrall’s department which puzzled his
tired mind.

After one of Jeremy’s flying trips into the country, he returned to
find Andrew sitting at Max Verrall’s desk. Instead of responding to his
employer’s greeting, the general manager asked abruptly:

“Verrall was a sort of political pet of ‘Smiling Mart’s’ when we got
him, was n’t he?”

“Yes. Embree recommended him to me.”

“He’s quit.”

“No great loss; he’s been laying down on his job lately.”

“He’s been doing worse than that. He’s been tying us up in a double
bowknot. Boss, did he have authority to make print-paper contracts?”

“Yes; all supplies.”

“Then God help The Guardian!”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s contracted for our next year’s paper at four cents and a quarter.”

“Four and a quarter! That’s half a cent above the market, is n’t it?”

“All of that.”

“What concern did he buy of?”

“Oak Lodge Pulp Company.”

“Magnus Laurens’s outfit! They never tried anything of the kind on us
before. It looks queer, does n’t it!”

“Worse than that.”

“But, see here, Andy. They can’t make that stick. Half a cent above
market for that grade of paper--”

“Which grade? There’s the kink. Verrall’s tied us up on a special
quality.”

“Good God!” said Jeremy.

He sat down heavily. A clean blotter on the desk offered him a field for
calculations. For a few moments he busied himself with a pencil. When he
looked up, his face was queer and drawn. Andrew Galpin waited.

“It’ll be a pull, Andy,” said Jeremy. “It’ll be a hell of a pull! It’ll
suck the yolk right out of my surplus. But we can pull through yet if--”

“If what?” demanded the general manager, for his chief had stopped.

“If we can hold the big local advertisers.”

Galpin looked down on his employer with sorrowful eyes. He cleared his
throat, scratched his head, spat upon the floor, and was apologetic
about it; hummed, hawed, and glowered. Jeremy regarded these maneuvers
with surprise.

“Baby got a pin stickin’ into ums?” he inquired solicitously.

“Oh, hell, Boss!” broke out the other. “I hate to tell you. They’re
on our trail now. The Botches’ game is working. Ellison, of Ellison
Brothers, is in your office waiting to see you.”

Jeremy left for his own den and the interview.

Visibly ill at ease, the head of Fenchester’s oldest department store
rose to greet Jeremy, resumed his seat and proceeded volubly to say
a great deal of nothing in particular, about the uncertainty of the
business outlook and the necessity, apparent to every thoughtful
merchant, of retrenchment. Adjured to get down to details, he painfully
brought himself to the point of announcing that Ellison Brothers felt it
best to drop out of The Guardian’s columns.

“Just temporary, Mr. Robson, you understand,” he said in a tone which
assured his auditor that it was nothing of the sort. “We hope to resume
soon.”

“But, Mr. Ellison,” said Jeremy in dismay, “there must be some reason
for this. Is it our editorial course that you object to?”

The visitor began to babble unhappily.

“No, no, Mr. Robson! You must n’t think that. I--I quite approve of
your editorial course. Quite! Personally, I mean to say.... As a
merchant--Well, of course, you have been a little hard on our German
fellow-citizens. Have n’t you, now? You must admit that, yourself....
Oh, it’s all right, of course! Very praiseworthy, and all that. Loyalty;
yes, indeed; loyalty above everything.... But for a business man--We
can’t afford--”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Ellison. How many of your German customers have
given notice to quit you unless you quit The Guardian?”

“Oh, none, Mr. Robson,” disclaimed the tremulous Ellison. “None--not in
those terms.”

“I understand, Mr. Ellison. And I’m rather sorry for you. Who are the
boy cotters?”

“Oh, really, Mr. Robson, I could n’t--”

“No. Of course, you could n’t. By the way, you’re an American, are you,
Mr. Ellison?”

The merchant drew himself up. “My folks have been in this country for
seven generations. Why do you ask?”

“Just to be disagreeable,” replied the other softly, and left Ellison to
make what he could out of it.

Bad though this was, the owner of The Guardian comforted himself with
one assurance. No store in Fenchester could do business by advertising
in The Record alone, against other stores which advertised in both
papers. Therefore, Ellison Brothers would soon discover, in the harsh
light of decreasing trade, that they could not afford to ignore The
Guardian. Unless, indeed, the other stores also--Before the thought
was fairly concluded, Jeremy had seized his hat and set out to obtain
instant confirmation or refutation of his fears. His natural source of
enlightenment was the loyal Betts, of Kelter & Betts, but Betts was out
of town. The next store was The Great Northwestern. There could hardly
have been a worse choice from one point of view, for the Ahrenses had
from the first resented The Guardian’s independence, and, moreover, were
members of the Deutscher Club in good and regular standing. But Jeremy
was in a hurry. Friend or enemy, it made no great difference, if he
could arrive at the facts. In the seclusion of his inner office, Adolph
Ahrens bade his visitor sit down, with an anticipative smile.

“I ain’t seen you,” he said slowly, “since that elegant hyphen
editorial, to congrach’late you on it.”

This was Refined Sarcasm, according to the Ahrensian standard.

“The events since have backed it up,” said Jeremy shortly.

“Must be great,” surmised the other, “to be a big enough Smart-Allick to
rough up decent folks’ feelings whenever you want to.”

“There was nothing in what I wrote to offend any good American.”

“I guess you ain’t the only good American in Fenchester! I guess I’m as
good an American as you are, if I have got a German name. You ain’t an
American! You’re a England-lover and a German-hater.”

“Perhaps you have n’t heard that we are at war with Germany, Mr.
Ahrens,” said Jeremy with rising color. “We’ve been at war for three
weeks.”

“Never mind your funny jokes with me! I know about the war. Does that
make you right to insult every German--German-American, I mean? You
think you got us merchants where you want us with your verfluchter--your
be-dammt paper. Well, you ain’t! Not any more. I got somethin’ to tell
you about next year’s contract.”

“Tell it.”

“I’ll tell it, all right,” jeered the other. “I’ll tell you where you
get off. Half of last year’s contract. Not a line more.”

“That’s less than The Guardian’s fair share.”

“Surprisin’, ain’t it?” snarled the other.

“Yes, it is. Unless on the theory that you expect a decrease in your
trade.”

Ahrens flushed.

“Not in our trade,” he asserted; “in yours. The Guardian’s a losing
proposition.”

“You know why it’s losing--temporarily,” replied its owner, keeping his
temper.

“It’s losing because it steps on too many folks’ toes. From now on we
don’t need but half as much Guardian in our business. That’s all.”

“I see. This is our punishment, this half-space allowance.”

“You can call it that if you like.”

“Then, just to make it even, I’ll throw out the other half.”

“Wha-at?” gasped the thunderstruck merchant.

“You understand me, Ahrens. You’re out--every line of you.”

Ahrens became suddenly timorous. “Wh-wh-why?” he stammered.

“Because I don’t take punishment lying down. Not from you, Ahrens.
You’re going to find out whether you can do business without The
Guardian, losing proposition or not!”

He left the worried store-keeper and continued his rounds. Nearly
everywhere he found the same prospect; appropriations cut from a third
to a half, but mostly a third. Something definite was back of it. Of
that he felt sure. But what it was he could not discover.

Enlightenment was waiting for him at his office, through the medium of
Galpin. That usually self-contained person looked haggard. “Verrall has
been here since you left, Boss.”

“What did he want? His job back?”

“No. He’s got another.”

“Good riddance. What is it?”

“Boss, the cat’s out of the bag. I don’t know how they ever kept her
in so long. Her name is The Fair Dealer; morning paper with Amalgamated
Wire Franchise; scheduled to start next month. And she ain’t a cat.
She’s a skunk.”

“Who’s back of it?”

“Can’t you tell from the sniveling, canting, hypocritical name? ‘Smiling
Mart’ Embree--damn his soul.”

“So that’s it,” said Jeremy slowly. “That explains Ahrens’s attitude. Of
course they can get along with less space. And Ellison’s. Wants to try
out the new, and save money on the old. We might have known! Embree has
to have a paper here for his senatorial campaign. If he gets us, on the
side, so much the better.”

“But does he get us?”

“It does n’t look pretty, Andy. I can’t pretend I like the scenery.
There is n’t room for three papers in Fenchester. Somebody’s going to
get bumped.”

“Maybe it’ll be The Fair Dealer.”

“All the Germans and the anti-war crowd will get in back of it. I should
n’t be surprised if Montrose Clark and his gang were financing it--to
kill us off. If we can pull through this next year--But there’s that
print-paper contract pinching us. Any details about the new paper?”

“Verrall claims it’ll start with twenty-five thousand circulation all
over the State. He was in here this morning to see me about--well, about
something else; and to give us the news of the new paper. I told him
we’d print it when released; would n’t give him the satisfaction of
thinking we were afraid to.”

“Right! If we’ve got to die we’ll die game.”

“It makes me sick!” growled Galpin. “Oh, I ain’t kicking, Boss! Only
it’ll be a tough game if, after all our scrapping, right and wrong--and
we haven’t always been a hundred per cent right, you know--we get ours
from a bunch of half-breeds and double-facers, like the Governor and his
crowd, because we would n’t straddle a hyphen.”

There followed a thoughtful silence between the two. Then the owner
spoke:

“Did Verrall make you an offer, Andy?”

“Kind of hinted round.”

“How much did he hint? In dollars?”

“Oh, a little raise. Nothing much.”

“I can’t honestly say”--Jeremy spoke with an effort--“but what the new
paper’s a better prospect than this, as things stand. I think you ought
to consider it carefully.”

“That’s your best advice, is it?”

“I guess it is, Andy.”

Galpin wandered about the room, arriving by a devious and irresolute
route at the door. He opened it, shut it, opened it again, stood
swinging it with a smudged hand. “Boss,” he said insinuatingly.

“Well?”

“Speaking as man to man, and not as employee to employer--”

“Don’t bleat like a goat, Andy.”

“--you can take your advice and go to hell with it. I stick!”




CHAPTER XIII

ANNOUNCEMENT of the new paper was not to be formally made as yet.
Its projectors had other possible plans in mind. Already, however, its
competition bade fair to be fatal to The Guardian. Simple mathematics
proved to the complete dissatisfaction of Jeremy and Andrew Galpin that
a store’s advertising appropriation of twelve hundred dollars yearly,
say, divided between two papers would give to each six hundred dollars
revenue; whereas divided among three papers it would afford only four
hundred dollars apiece. Therefore, quite apart from German boycott, The
Guardian might expect a loss of thirty-three and a third per cent of
the income from such advertisers as the department stores, which would
naturally use all local mediums.

But in this case, the purity of mathematics was corrupted by
complicating human elements not all of them adverse. Reports of the
Ahrens interview had drifted through the mercantile world. It became
known, too, that Ellison Brothers had dropped out of The Guardian; been
“bluffed” out, rumor said, by pressure of Deutscher Club threats. The
Germans, so the word passed, were now openly out to “get” The Guardian.
As a gleam in the gloom Galpin was able to report one morning a cheering
sign:

“We’re beginning to get a little reaction from the Botches’ attack.
Remember the Laundry Association who lifted their contracts in a bunch
early in the game?”

“Because we took Wong Kee’s ad? I remember.”

“They’re back with the American flag over their copy. Lamp this, Boss.”

The note he tendered was written in the most approved style of
business-college condensation, and read as follows:

_To the Pub’r of the Guardian. D’r Sir: A Chink may not be White but he
is a Long Sight better American than any Kaiser-hound. Inclosed please
find contract renewals.

Resp’y, for the Com’tee,

The Spotless Laundry.

J. Corby, Prop’r._

“At least we’re making a few friends,” Jeremy commented.

“The trouble is, they’re not organized. Our enemies are. It’s
organization that counts.”

Friends counted, too, however, in practical as well as in moral support,
and they materialized in the least expected quarters. The Emporium,
which since the early quarrel had withheld all but occasional
special-sale advertising, now came in with a full contract. “And I take
off my hat to The Guardian,” said the obstinate and combative Peter
Turnbull. “I’ve learned to do that when I see the flag passing by, no
matter who carries it!”

Barclay & Bull restored their full original space and added to it. No
comment accompanied the order. But Galpin went around to the store to
explain that The Guardian understood and appreciated. Then there was
Aaron Levy, of The Fashion, who had never forgiven The Guardian’s
attitude toward his installment trade. The dogged, hard-bitted, driving
Jew came to The Guardian office and was received by Andrew Galpin.

“Mr. Galpin, I hear Ellison Brothers is out.”

“Ay-ah. They are.”

“What for?”

“Did n’t you hear that, too?”

“I heard something.”

“What you heard is right.”

“Mr. Galpin,” said Levy slowly. “I been running a two-inch three-time
card in The Guardian.”

“Yep.”

“It ain’t that I want to; but it brings trade. It’s small; but it’d have
been smaller if I could afford to make it. You know why.”

“Sure.”

“Now I hear there’s a new paper coming in. I gotta go into that. That’s
business.”

“Ay-ah.”

“But I’m going to stay with you. That’s business too. And I’m going to
double my space and go in daily. That ain’t business; but--but you know
why?”

“I do not.”

“Mr. Galpin, I’m a Jew. I was raised on kicks and crusts in Mitteldorf.
I came here a boy and got a living chance. I’m worth fifty thousand
dollars to-day. I can’t fight, myself; but I’ll help any man who fights
the Germans, at home or over there. You have, maybe, all the fight you
can handle, and more. Yes? Well, that’s my help. No; you don’t have to
thank me. It ain’t for that. I don’t like you or your paper any more
after the war is over.”

He stumped out, leaving in The Guardian office a vivid contrast in
practical patriotism between an Ellison seven generations in the United
States, and a Levy, German-born and American-hearted.

Even among the Germans of a certain type the strange reactions of the
war dissolved old enmities. Coming out of the Post-Office one evening,
Jeremy found himself approaching Blasius, the little German-born hatter,
who had withdrawn his thrice-a-week announcement from The Guardian,
after the Lusitania editorial. Upon sighting the editor, Blasius
squared his shoulders to a Prussian stiffness, set his lips, and all but
goose-stepped up to the other.

“I wish to say a word to you,” he announced precisely.

“Say it.”

“Those Deutscher Clubbers; they are after you--not?”

“They are. Are you?”

“Mr. Robson,” said the hatter gravely, “while we are at peace I think of
my good people in Germany and I hope we remain at peace. When we are at
war once, I think of myself, a citizen of this United States; and I am
at war too. As you are,” he added. “And I want my advertisement back in
your paper, double space.”

“I’ll be mighty glad to have it there, Mr. Blasius,” answered Jeremy
heartily.

“I thank you. This that I have told you I say to the Deutscher Club at
their meeting. And what do they do? They fire me out! That is, I think,
strainch,” reflected the sturdy little hatter.

To Jeremy it did not seem “strainch.” Men like Professor Brender and
Blasius would find no fellowship in the Deutscher Club now. He knew too
much, however, of the retentive power of Deutschtum to believe that the
schism in the club would be important.

But for every patriot who came to the aid of the sorely beset Guardian
with financial support there were ten who were swayed adversely by
resentment or fear. Meantime expenses went merrily on, increasing as
they went. The Guardian’s surplus was already enlisted in the fight.
Jeremy’s small reserve was compromised. Even Andrew Galpin, against his
chief’s protest, had scraped up two thousand dollars which he insisted
on putting in, as he blithely observed, “just for the hell of it.” That,
Jeremy prophesied discouragingly, was about all that he might expect to
get out of it!

With true Teutonic effrontery, the propagandists of Deutschtum continued
their attempts to use the paper whose ruin they were encompassing, until
the inutility of this procedure was at length borne in upon them by
the adverse experience of Henry Vogt, florist and heavy advertiser, who
personally approached Jeremy with a long and thoughtful screed in the
best Teutonic-pacifist style of reasoning. This, Mr. Vogt argued, with
the assurance of an old-time patron, would well beseem the editorial
columns of The Guardian. The editor thought otherwise. As a result
of that difference of opinion the remnants of the Vogt advertising
disappeared from The Guardian’s pages just one degree less promptly than
Mr. Vogt himself disappeared from its precincts. In a rather testily
conceived editorial entitled “Local Dummkopfheit” Jeremy set forth the
principles of his paper regarding propaganda. In response to this
he received three threats of extinction, eleven of ruin, and two of
unprintable language, which served to restore the level of his overtried
temper.

While he was perusing this mail, his general manager came rambling in,
with a queer light in his eye.

“Want to sell, Boss?”

“Sell what?”

“Sell out. Sell the paper.”

“Tell me the rest of the joke, Andy, and get out. I’m busy.”

“Joke nothing! We got a buyer. He’s in my office.”

“Is he violent?”

“Boss, it’s A. M. Wymett.”

Jeremy straightened in his chair. “Wymett! What’s he doing here?”

“Wearing lovely clothes and looking prosperous. He _is_ crazy, Boss. He
wants to get back into the game.” Two minutes later, the ex-proprietor
of The Guardian was confirming this latter statement.

“Yes,” he said. “The crave is in my blood. It’s worse than drink. I’ve
quit drink. But not the other.”

“You’ve been back in it?”

“Mining journal in California. I made a little money at it. But there’s
no life in that. You’re in a back-water. I want to get into the main
current again.”

“What made you suppose The Guardian was for sale?” Wymett lifted the
heavy brows above his weary, cynical eyes, as if with an effort. “Aren’t
you going into the service?”

“I may,” said Jeremy shortly.

“Oh! I beg your pardon. I thought you were under thirty.” The tone was
courteous but indifferent. It stung.

“I’m over. A little.”

“In that case you’re not _obliged_ to go, of course. Then you won’t
consider an offer for The Guardian?”

“I did n’t say that.” Jeremy’s mind revolved many things swiftly. The
Guardian’s days were probably numbered anyway. If he could sell at a
decent price now, he could retrieve part of his own fortunes and make a
fresh start after the war. Besides, there was Andy and his hard-scraped
two thousand dollars. No one could criticize him for selling out with a
view to making the larger sacrifice and going into the army. But in
his heart he knew it was the lesser sacrifice. He knew it would be a
surrender, with a salve to his conscience; knew it and would not confess
the knowledge to himself.

“Ah, well!” said Wymett’s even, tired voice. “I wish I were young enough
to get in.”

Jeremy’s head lifted. “When do you want an answer?”

“You gave me one hour,” Wymett reminded him.

“So I did.” Jeremy smiled. “Times have changed since then. Or you would
n’t be back in Fenchester,” he added rather brutally.

“Tactful of you to remind me,” returned the other, unperturbed.
“People’s memories are charitable--and short. Suppose we say to-morrow?”

“Three days,” amended Jeremy. “That will be Monday. By the way, whom do
you represent?”

“Myself.”

“Of course. But who’s behind you?”

“Ah! Is that wise?” drawled the other. “In the interests of your own
unprejudiced decision?”

It was on Jeremy’s lips to return a definite refusal then and there.
But, after all, what harm in considering?

“The money will be forthcoming,” Wymett assured him. “Shall we discuss
terms?”

“Let that wait.”

The other assented, and took his leave. By a roundabout course he made
his way to The Record office, and there consulted Farley. The result
of the conference was that A. M. Wymett contributed a trenchant and
bitingly worded editorial to that evening’s issue of The Record entitled
“Lip and Pen Patriotism.” It was conceived in the old and waning style
of personal and allusive journalism, and contained pointed references to
young men of means and sound physique who preferred staying at home and
preaching the patriotic duty of others, to shouldering a gun and doing
their own part. The shrewd, tired eyes had seen Jeremy wince under the
sting of the war-query. Their owner judged that a little impetus might
decide the matter. And Farley, for reasons of his own and The Record’s,
was only too glad to lend a hand toward getting Jeremy out of the way.
He knew, what Jeremy only suspected, that Wymett in nominal control
of The Guardian meant Embree in actual control, and hence two papers
instead of three in Fenchester, as The Fair Dealer would then be
dropped.

Had the writer of the editorial been present to mark the effect upon its
unnamed subject, he would have been gratified. Jeremy cursed fervently.
He then summoned Andrew Galpin.

“Andy, I’m going into the army.”

“Ay-ah?”

“What do you think?”

“Going to sell the paper?”

“Might as well sell it as wreck it.”

“Ay-ah?”

“For God’s sake, Andy,” broke out his chief; “can’t you say anything but
‘Ay-ah’?”

“I’ve said my say once.”

“That was before we were surely down and out.”

“I have n’t changed my mind.”

“I’m sick of a losing fight.”

“Good thing there’s folks in the world that aren’t. The French, for
instance.”

Jeremy cursed again, wildly and extravagantly. “You’re trying to make me
out yellow!”

“Boss, your nerves are n’t all they ought to be. Why don’t you drop in
on your doc?”

“I’m going right from here to Doc Summerfield’s.”

“Ay-ah? You _are_ feeling shaky, eh?”

“No. I’m not. But I want to be sure that I’ll get through all right on
the physical examination.”

“Ay-ah. I guess you’ll do--physically.” Andrew Galpin turned and left.
His head was hanging. He looked like a man ashamed. Jeremy knew for
whom he was ashamed. Again he cursed, and this time, himself. All the
catchwords in the vocabulary of patriotism could not now exorcise that
inner feeling of surrender, of desertion.

A figure emerged from a forgotten corner. It was Buddy Higman.

“I heard you,” said the boy in a lifeless voice. “Are you goin’ to
quit?”

The final word flicked Jeremy on the raw. “I’m going to fight.”

“What’s goin’ to become of us?” said Buddy simply. Jeremy stared at him
without consciously seeing the open, freckled face of the boy. What he
saw was the letter of Marcia Ames in which she had committed Buddy to
his care.

“Become of you, Buddy?” he said.

“Of us. The paper. It won’t be us any more with you out of it.”

“No. It won’t be,” sighed Jeremy. “But I’ll arrange to have you kept
on.”

The boy shook his head. “Nothin’ doin’. She wanted me to have a job
with you.” Suddenly he brightened up. “Boss, could I have a half-day off
to-morrow?”

“Take it all if you like. Looking for another place?” The boy thanked
him without replying. Jeremy went to Dr. Summerfield’s office where
he was duly stripped, prodded, poked, flexed, and stethoscoped by that
slim, dry, brief-spoken physician. When it was over the doctor leaned
back in his chair and contemplated his caller. “Want to get into the
army, eh?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“To fight, of course.”

“Is n’t there enough fight right here?”

“It is n’t the same.”

“Certainly it is n’t. No flags. No ta-rum-ta-ra. No khaki, brave
soldier-boy, hero-stuff. Eh?”

“I notice you went, fast enough. And you’re going again, are n’t you?”

“Different matter. I don’t own a trouble-making newspaper. What are you
going to do with it?”

“The Guardian? Sell it.”

“To whom?”

“A. M. Wymett.”

“He’s a figurehead. What’s behind him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nor want to, I guess.”

“I don’t care.”

“‘I don’t care,’” mimicked the physician. “You talk like a spoiled kid.
Are you going to act like one?”

“I want to get in it! I want to get in it!” cried Jeremy. “Or out of it?
Which?”

“Doc, if you were n’t an old friend--”

“You’d punch my nose. I know. You’ll do ’most anything to prove to
yourself that you’ll fight ’most anything. Except the enemy that most
needs your kind of fighting.”

“I’ve been doing nothing but fight,” said Jeremy wearily.

“And now you want to quit.”

“I’ve had about enough of that word, quit.”

“Somebody else been using it to you? Ugly little whippet of a word,
ain’t it! Well, you’re not going to profit by it, at least not with any
nice, little, heroic, ready-made excuse to comfort yourself with. That
much I’ve just heard over the telephone.”

“Telephone?”

“This one.” He tapped his stethoscope. “Straight from Central. Were you
in athletics in college?”

“Yes. Golf. Some football. Cross-country run.”

“That’s it; the distance run. Been under some nervous strain, lately,
too?”

“Try to run The Guardian for a month and see!”

“Well, the college athletics began it, and overwork and worry have
brought it out. Those endurance tests will get a boy’s heart--”

“Heart! Have I got heart-disease? What kind?”

“Never mind the big names. Nothing to worry over. You’ll live a hundred
years for all of it. But it’s there all right.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Try another physician, then, my spoiled child.”

“I beg your pardon, doc. Of course, I know it’s right if you say so. But
it--it’s--”

“Rather a soaker, eh? Don’t let it worry you. You’re sound enough to go
ahead and raise any amount of Hades here, so far as your heart goes. I
won’t say so much for your nerves.”

“It is n’t that.”

“No. I know. It’s the being counted out.” He wrote a prescription,
looked up from it to study the silent and downcast patient, then tore
it up and flung the pieces in the air. “I’m not going to coddle you with
minor dopes,” he declared vigorously. “Jem, I read The Record editorial
this evening. How much did that have to do with your warlike ambitions.”

“It hurt,” confessed Jeremy.

“It was meant to. Know who wrote it?”

“Farley, I suppose.”

“And you call yourself a newspaperman! Farley’s got the malice, but not
the sting.”

“Who did, then?”

“Wymett.”

“Wymett?”

“I’d spot his style across the continent even if I did n’t know he was
here. Don’t you see the game?”

“No.”

“Wymett has come on at Embree’s call. Embree is behind his bid for The
Guardian. He’d rather buy The Guardian than start his new paper. Quicker
and cheaper. Farley’d rather have him buy The Guardian than start the
new paper; only one competitor in the field instead of two. Wymett sees
he has you going; but he is n’t certain. He borrows The Record’s columns
to force your hand. And you want to run away and play soldier!”

“I’ve got to! I’ve got to!” cried Jeremy, beating the arms of his chair
with violent hands. “And now you tell me I can’t.”

“Steady! I never said you could n’t play soldier.”

“My heart--”

“You’re a border-land case.”

Jeremy’s face lighted with hope.

“You can get in all right. I’ve passed cases like yours. But let me tell
you what it means. It means that you’ll never see active service.
It means they’ll make use of your brains somewhere, in a perfectly
honorable, perfectly safe office job where the only gunpowder you can
ever smell is by getting to leeward of the sunset gun. Mind you; you’ll
get all the credit. You’ll go marching away in uniform with Committees
handing out flowers and tears and embossed resolutions, and everybody
will regard you as a hero, except perhaps me--and yourself. You’ve got
to reckon it out with yourself whether you’ll put on uniform and shirk
or stay home and fight.” Strangely enough, at this bald summons there
stood forth in Jeremy’s working mind two incongruous figures, each
summoning him to judgment; Marcia of the clear, instinctive courage,
and Andrew Galpin. Were they ranged in opposition to each other? Or were
they not, rather, united in impelling him to the simple and difficult
course? More strangely still, it was the thought of Andrew Galpin which
predominated at the last; Galpin who, facing disaster and the ruin
of his dearest projects with an alternative clear and easy and not
dishonorable, had made his choice of the hard path and the forlorn hope,
without so much as a quiver of indecision.

“I stick” he had said.

Jeremy lifted his head. He rose and held out a hand as steady as a
rock in farewell, to Dr. Summerfield who bestowed a passing and
self-gratulatory thought upon the stimulant effect of psychologic
suggestion properly administered. The physician took the hand.

“Well,” he said. “Which?”

“I stick,” plagiarized Jeremy.

Andrew Galpin’s relief when the decision was reported to him was almost
pathetic. “Boss, if you’d laid down on this I was about through with
human nature,” was his comment. “And now, what’s to come?”

Jeremy’s lined face puckered into a cherubic smile. “The last trench,
and a damned good fight in it,” he said softly.




CHAPTER XIV

MR. BURTON HIGMAN mounted the stairs of The Guardian office, dressed
in his best suit of clothes. A powerfully inferential mind might have
derived from his proud and important bearing that he had matters of
moment on his mind; might further have deduced that he had been on a
railway journey, from the presence of a cinder in his ear. He wore the
air and expression, sanctified, as it were, all but martyr-like, as
of one who, if he had not already died for his country, was at least
prepared to. For young Mr. Higman had been performing that miracle,
forever dear to dreaming boyhood; he had been saving the world. Such, at
all events, was his own glorious interpretation of his enterprise.

The clock, pointing an accusing digit at V, was the only sign of life in
the inner den. Buddy went to Mr. Galpin’s office. Empty also. So there
was none to apprise him of the Boss’s final determination. A group of
printers, scrubbed and clean, clumped down the stairs, still discussing
the exciting rumor that somebody had bought out Robson; for every
press-room is a clearing-house of gossip, technical and other.

“Hey, Buddy,” one of them hailed. “Got a new job yet?”

“Good-bye the easy snap,” added another. “The old Guardian’s sold
again.”

“Much you know about it,” retorted Buddy, stoutly and scornfully.

But the statement struck a chill to his ardent soul. Could it be that he
was too late? Surely the deal could n’t have been fixed up overnight!

On Mr. Higman’s official desk was a heap of mail which, in size, would
have done credit to a correspondence school. It was Mr. Higman’s present
professional duty, interrupted by his brief leave of absence, to sift
out the anonymous communications, with special reference to those of
a spicy and murderous character, and deliver them to his chief. To
Jeremy’s journalistic instinct, it had occurred as a sprightly idea to
make up a special page for publication of these epistolary efforts.
It would be interesting to his readers, and would serve further to
enlighten them as to the extent and virulence of local German sentiment.
Perhaps, too, it would check the flood. So Mr. Higman sorted and divided
and contributed marginal marks, and finally delivered a large packet
upon the editorial desk for the Boss’s professional consideration, when
he should return that evening, which, his young aide felt sure he would
do, even though it was Saturday. Few, indeed, were the evenings that did
not see a light in the den, close up to midnight.

Doctors’ protests to the contrary, notwithstanding, Jeremy came back to
the office that evening, after a hasty dinner. Overwork might be bad for
that second-rate and shop-worn heart of his. Loafing on the job would be
a thousand times worse. That was one thing which his temper positively
refused to endure. As he ran through the pile of letters, terminating
in such suggestive and enticing signatures as “Vengeance,” “Outraged
justice,” “Member of the Firing Squad,” “Old Scores,” or (with
appropriate and blood-curdling commitments) those old familiars, “X,”
 “Y,” and “Z,” he realized that the threats were getting on his nerves.
He was becoming bored, with an unendurable, deadly boredom, at their
repetition. Nor could he deny to himself that they were affecting his
actions, though in minor respects. For a week he had gone a block out
of his way at night, not to avoid but to pass a certain unlighted
alley-mouth wherein, so “Well-Wisher” and “Warned-in-Time,” two (or
perhaps one) depressing correspondents had informed him, in feminine
handwriting, lurked his intended murderers. Silly though it was to pay
any heed, he had to do it. He had to prove to himself the futility of
any such intimidation. In vain had Andrew Galpin tried to prevail upon
him to carry a revolver. It was the common-sense, reasonable, unromantic
thing to do. Jeremy would n’t do it. He would n’t even have one in his
desk. But there were times in the long solitary evenings at the office
when the unexplained creaking of floor-boards, or that elfin gunnery
carried on by invisible sharpshooters in the woodwork of old buildings
during nights of changing temperatures, produced sudden effects upon
his handwriting which the two-fingered typist, Mr. Burton Higman,
subsequently found disconcerting.

On this Saturday evening, he had set aside nearly enough epistolary
blood-curdlers for his make-up, and was deleting certain anatomical
references unsuited to fireside consumption from a rather illiterate but
highly expressive letter, when he became aware that a draft from below
was driving some papers along the hallway outside. A high wind off
the lakes was making clamor through the street, but it had no business
inside The Guardian building, and could n’t have got there unless some
one had opened the front door. He listened for footsteps on the stairs.
Nothing. He returned to his editing.

“Getting your throte cut some dark nigt is too Good for you,” his
correspondent had written, and suggested, in unpolished terms,
disagreeable and lethal substitutes of almost surgical technicality.

Jeremy was Bowdlerizing these, when he stopped and put down his pen.
The floor-boards in the hallway were creaking intermittently but
progressively. Through the noise of the wind he thought that he could
catch fragments of a whispered colloquy. Then, quite plainly, there was
a retreating tread, which, however, left something. What? An infernal
machine? Infernal machines do not linger, striving and forcing
themselves to the determining action; theirs is a simple and direct
method. And Jeremy could feel, through the noisy darkness, the struggle
of a will, agonizingly fighting for expression, through dread. Himself,
he was not conscious of fear. But every nerve was tense. He sat looking
at the door.

For what seemed an interminable time nothing happened. But the Something
outside drew slowly, painfully nearer. The knob of his door moved, a
thing suddenly inspired to life. Jeremy gathered himself. It turned. The
door was drawn open swiftly. A blur came upon Jeremy’s vision. His heart
bumped once in a thick, dull way, then swelled intolerably. He half
rose, sat down again heavily. His eyes cleared and the clogged blood in
his temples flowed again.

She stood framed against the stirring, whispering darkness beyond. Her
breath came quick and light. She was white to the lips, and more lovely
even than the dreams of her, cherished through all those aching years.

“Jem,” she said.

“Marcia!”

She made one eager step forward. A vagrant gust, ranging the darkness,
caught the door and drove it savagely to, behind her. She threw a
startled glance back. It was as if the impalpable fates had cut off the
last chance of withdrawal.

“I have come back to you.” The sweet precision of her speech was the
unforgotten same, blessedly unchanged in any intonation. But wonder held
Jeremy speechless. He stood, his hands knuckling the desk, and devoured
her with his eyes.

“Will you not speak to me?” she said, with a quick sorrowful little
intake of the breath. “You frighten me. You look so strange. Have you
been ill?”

At that he came forward and took her hand, and drew out a chair for her.
“Not ill,” he heard himself say in a surprisingly commonplace voice.
“Sit down.”

She shook her head gently. “I can look at you better, standing.”

Her candid eyes swept over him. She saw a face thinner and more drawn
than she had remembered it; bitten into by stern lines about the mouth;
the eyes tired but more thoughtful, and just over the temple nearest
her a fleck of gray in the dark sweep of his hair. Involuntarily she put
forth a swift hand and touched it.

“Oh, Jem!” she whispered with quivering lips.

He seemed to brace himself against her light touch. “That?” he said.
“Oh, that is n’t anything.”

“How came it there?”

“Honest toil, I hope,” he returned cheerfully.

Her inventory was completed with a smile. “You are quite as carefully
turned out as ever,” she commented.

“Habit.”

“Oh, no! Not habit alone. Character. And you stand as straight and
square as you used.”

A curious expression came into the weary eyes. “Straighter,” he said.
“That’s your doing, Marcia.”

“How mine?”

“It’s rather complicated and long. I don’t know that you’d understand.”

“Make me understand.”

“Give me time. This has been--well, startling. I think I’m a little
dazzled and--and dizzy.”

And, indeed, Marcia Ames, as she stood there beneath the hard, revealing
light of the overhead arc, was a vision to dazzle any man, and, taken
on an empty heart, to make him dizzy. The years had fulfilled her; had
added splendor to her compelling beauty without withdrawing that almost
fantastically delicate and elusive challenge of youth. She seated
herself, and Jem took his accustomed position behind the editorial
table.

“That is well,” she said lightly. “Is that how you receive callers on
business?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I have come on business.”

“Where did you come from? I can’t quite believe it’s really you--here!”

“From Chicago. Buddy brought me.”

“Buddy Higman?”

“He came after me. He told me that you were in great trouble.”

“He told you that I was going to desert the ship.”

“Oh, no! Buddy is your loyal subject. The Boss can do no wrong.”

“The Boss has reached the point where he is n’t sure what’s wrong and
what’s right.”

“I am not afraid of that.” There was an implication of pride and of
proprietorship in the words which shook Jem’s hard hold upon himself.

“Were you coming here, anyway?”

“Later.”

“Then I should have seen you.” He seemed to be puzzling out some inner
problem.

“I had thought you would have been in the army.”

“So I should, if I had n’t been told that I’m a useless bit of
wreckage.”

“Please! I know all about it. I have seen Mr. Galpin. Your war is here.
If you had decided otherwise than you did I should--I should--”

“You’re trying to make it easy for me,” he accused. “I should have come
back to find another Jem from the one I have learned to believe in.”

“To believe in, Marcia? How’s that?”

“‘Seein’ ’s believin’,”’ she laughed. “I once heard Buddy’s aunt give
out that word of wisdom. I have been seeing The Guardian and reading it,
and reading you in it, ever since the war.”

“More than me. Galpin and Cassius Kimball; yes, and old Eli Wade,
and others that have helped keep me straight. We haven’t always gone
straight, Marcia. There have been issues of The Guardian that I’d hate
to have you see.”

“But I have seen them. All.”

“And you did n’t lose faith?”

“I never lost hope that--that you would be what I wanted you to be. Jem,
Mr. Galpin says that the paper is losing.”

“It is.”

“Can you go on?”

“For a while?”

“Could you go on if you had more money?”

“For a while longer. There’d be a chance of our pulling through. But
only a chance.”

“Will you take mine?”

“Great God! _No!_”

“Why not?”

“I tell you, it’s almost sure loss. There’s a new paper coming into the
field--”

“You said just now that it was my doing that you--you stood straighter
than you used. Did you mean The Guardian?”

“The Guardian. Myself. It’s the same thing.”

“Then does not that give me a right in the paper? A moral right?” she
argued with bewitching earnestness. “Granted. Put in anything you like
but your money.”

“Jem! Please!” she pleaded. “Will you not take it if--”

“Not with any if.”

She rose and came to him around the corner of the table, and set her
hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were steady, clear, courageous upon his,
but her whole face flushed into a glorious shame and her voice shook and
fluttered as she spoke again. “Not if--not even if--I go with it?”

“No,” said Jem. But his face was like that of one in a mortal struggle.

For a moment there was a flash of fear in her regard. “Jem! There is
not--some one else?”

“How could there be?” he said simply.

“How could there be!” she repeated with a caressing contentment. “I knew
there could not be.”

“There never could. How did you know?”

She stepped back from him. “By what I felt, myself.” She laughed a
little tremulously. “I should have read it in The Guardian. Between the
lines.”

“But--” he began. “There was----Miss Pritchard told me--”

“Yes,” she assented gravely. “There was. It was a formal betrothal.
But when I saw him again I knew that I could not. It was no fault of
his--nor mine. I remembered,” she said very low, “that night. That last
night. On the bridge. Four years ago. My dear! _Was_ it four years ago?”

Her eyes, her voice yearned to him, wooed him. Jem’s knuckles were white
with the force of the grip wherewith he held to the table.

“Marcia!” he began.

“It made no difference,” she went on dreamily, “whether I was ever to
see you again or not. I did not believe then that I ever should. But
whether or not, there could be no one else. Some women are like that,
Jem. ‘Once is forever, and once alone!’ I think a woman wrote that....
And you have not even said I was welcome.”

“I dare n’t!” he burst out. “I dare n’t tell you what I feel--what I’m
struggling against. Marcia, I’m down and out.”

“Does that matter?” she broke in proudly.

“It matters everything. I can’t take your money. I can’t ask you to
marry me. There’s nothing ahead of me.”

“Mr. Galpin says that The Guardian is the one big, fighting energy--”

“Andy Galpin is a loyal fool. He’s the best and finest and stanchest
friend ever a blunderer like me had. Poor devil! He’s put every cent
he’s got into the fight--”

“And you will not let me put in my share?”

“Share? Don’t talk nonsense, Marcia. No.”

“Not even a little part?”

“Not a cent!”

“And you will not even marry me?”

“No,” groaned the sorely beset Jem.

“Very well. I think it very hard.” There was a palpable, even an
exaggerated, droop to the tender and mobile lips; but in the depths
of Marcia’s eyes twin devils of defiance and determination danced.
“Good-night, Jem. No! You shall _not_ take me downstairs.”

In the motor outside the scandalized Miss Letitia Pritchard, after a
wait of an hour and five minutes, commented significantly and with a
down-thrust inflection: “Well!”

“Well, Cousin Letty,” said Marcia demurely.

“Are you going to marry that young man, Marcia?”

“How can I? He has refused me.”

“Refused you!” gasped Miss Pritchard.

“Precisely. I am a blighted maiden.”

“Snumph!” sniffed Miss Pritchard. “Don’t you tell me!”

“Must you hear it from him to believe it?”

“Marcia Ames! I’ve watched that boy since you set your seal on him four
years ago. I’ve seen him grow into a man, and fight his way wrong and
right, and take his loss of you like a man and make a religion of it,
and run his life by it, and if ever a chit of a girl ought to be proud
of something too big and too good for her that she’s thrown away--Don’t
you tell me, Marcia Ames! I--I don’t positively know what to say of such
doings.”

The little electric, equally scandalized, suddenly lost its head, rushed
upon an unoffending hydrant, sheered off, made as if to climb the front
steps of the bank, performed an impossible curve, chased two horrified
and incredulous citizens (who had never seen Miss Pritchard under the
influence of liquor before, and so reported to their wives when they
got home) up against a railing, and finally resumed the road with a
sickening lurch, all of which may have been due to the fact that the
usually self-contained Miss Marcia Ames had abruptly buried her face in
Miss Pritchard’s shoulder, and clutched at her blindly.

“Say it again,” quavered Miss Ames, when the errant electric had squared
away for home. “Say it again, Cousin Letty! I could not make him say it.
And oh! how hard I tried.”

“Land sakes! Then you are going to marry him!” exclaimed Miss Pritchard.

“But he does not know it,” replied Marcia, suddenly demure.




CHAPTER XV

HAD any one informed Governor Martin Embree that Miss Marcia Ames
was again embellishing Fenchester society, he would have dismissed
the matter as of no political moment. That is to say, of no importance
whatsoever. Politics was now the exclusive and feverish preoccupation
of “Smiling Mart” Embree’s days and nights, “Aut Senatus aut nullus” the
motive guiding his every action. Miss Ames was not even a voter, having
no residence in the State. Yet, by those devious ways in which women
work and quite as unknown to herself as to Martin Embree, she was
preparing a pitfall for the aspiring feet of Centralia’s most bounteous
smiler.

Strange organizations were now coming to birth in every part of
the State visited by “Smiling Mart.” They were self-assumed to be
exuberantly patriotic and violently American, and their slogans were,
“American Blood for American Soil,” “Our Army for Home Defense,”
 “America for America,” “One Soldier Here Worth a Hundred in Europe,” and
the plausible like, the underlying purpose being to keep the American
forces at home and thus out of the war until the Kaiser could
successfully finish his job in Europe. Considering the super-quality of
Americanism in the claims, the proportion of Teutonic names among
the membership was striking. Open pacifists, covert pro-Germans, and
political straddlers made up the strength of these bodies, while in the
background warily lurked Martin Embree, moulding their activities to his
own purposes of advancement. Deutschtum, bent but not broken, was become
his chief political asset.

Presently these bodies merged into a State-wide and single entity, the
Defenders of Our Land--“Our Land” ostensibly meaning the United States,
though another interpretation might have been present in the minds
of some of the participants. All was going prosperously with the
enterprise; new members were flocking to its banner; the weak-minded and
short-sighted were responding to its proselytizing methods, when, one
day, the Fenchester Guardian, with that unparalleled and foul-minded
brutality to be expected from a bloodthirsty jingo like young Robson (to
paraphrase the impromptu but impassioned German of President Emil Bausch
at the Deutscher Club), set the German flag above the platform of the
organization, and below it the conjoined portraits of Governor Embree
and Kaiser Wilhelm wreathed in the olive. Thereafter recruiting
lessened.

Never before had Governor Embree so felt the need of reliable newspaper
backing. Upon the rejection of his offer for The Guardian, A. M. Wymett
had thrown all his energy into organizing the new paper for his backer,
the Governor, and the sub-backers, Bausch, Wanser, Fliess, the Deutscher
Club, and the German Societies of Centralia. Ostensibly it was to be
loyal, as the Defenders of Our Land were loyal. “An American Newspaper
for Americans” was to be its catch-line, and its main editorial precepts
were to be the already somewhat blown-upon “Keep the Boys at Home”
 slogan, and “A Rich Man’s War.” Other than propaganda, its chief
purpose, of course, was the election of Governor Embree to the vacancy
in the Senate. As the Governor, perforce, was drawn by his all-excluding
ambitions deeper and deeper into the pro-German campaign, newspaper upon
newspaper had fallen away from him, some, like The Bellair Journal, from
principle, others from fear of committing themselves too far. A powerful
daily with a State-wide circulation was now absolutely essential to the
success of his candidacy. The Fair Dealer was to supply the want.

As to circulation, that was arranged in advance. Max Verrall’s boast of
twenty-five thousand, assured from the start, was no great exaggeration.
Embree’s political agents had worked hard and well. Throughout the State
the pro-Germans and pacifists were prepared to accept The Fair Dealer
as their political mouthpiece from the day of its appearance. The
difficulty, which now grilled the souls of Embree and Wymett, was
the delay inevitable and unforeseeable attending the institution of a
newspaper plant. Meantime The Guardian’s editorial page had become at
once a beacon-fire for the patriotic elements and a searching, searing
flame for the pan-Germanic scheme of which Embree was the local
figurehead.

At length the path of the new daily seemed to be clear of reckonable
difficulties. Wymett decided that it was safe to go ahead. Spacious
announcements flared forth on the city’s hoardings, confirming what
rumor had more accurately than usual presaged of The Fair Dealer’s
principles and purposes, and setting July 5th as the date of
publication. Thereupon, as at a signal, part of the remaining bottom
proceeded to fall out of The Guardian’s advertising. Not only did the
local situation develop a more disastrous decrease than had been looked
for, but some two thousand dollars’ worth of products, manufactured in
other parts of the State by German or pacifist concerns, decided that a
morning paper was better suited to their needs than an evening.

With his final determination not to sell, Jeremy had shifted upon Andrew
Galpin the entire financial responsibility for and conduct of the paper.

“Here’s the extent of my pile,” he had said, turning over a statement to
his coadjutor. “You know where the paper stands and what it owes better
than I do. Take charge. There’s a worry I make you a present of. I’m out
of it. I prefer the editorial kind of nerve-strain, anyway. If you come
to me with any unnecessary information, Andy, I’ll have Buddy fire you
out.”

“Don’t you want to know _anything_ about it?”

“You might tell me, from time to time, how long the patient has to
live. But not too often, Andy. I don’t want to be distracted
by--er--irrelevant details.”

So, on the day of The Fair Dealer’s announcement, Galpin approached his
chief.

“We’ve slipped a couple of extra steps down the slide, Boss.”

“Is that all?”

“Ay-ah. But we are n’t so blame’ far from the bottom, you know.”

“Give us five more months, and we may get Mart Em-bree’s hide to cover
our lamented remains with.”

“Five months! Not on the cards, Boss. Call it three.”

Jeremy sighed. “Don’t bother me with it now,” he said testily. “I’m
busy. Did n’t I specially make you a present of that worry?”

Diplomacy was not Andrew Galpin’s strong point. Most injudiciously he
conceived that now was the time to advance a project which he had held
in reserve, awaiting such an opening.

“Boss,” he said, “there’s another buyer in the field for the paper.”

“Who’s the crook?”

“It is n’t a crook.”

“Who’s the fool, then?”

“I am.”

With a deliberation and accuracy worthy of a better action, the owner of
The Guardian thrust his editorial pen in the glue-pot.

“Oh, _you_ are, are you? And how much do you propose to pay for this
valuable property?”

“Well--er--say fifty thousand. And assume the mortgage.”

“Fine! You’ve got the fifty thousand ready, I suppose? In your little
leathern wallet?”

“It’s real money,” retorted the other, with a touch of resentment.

“Real, of course. But whose?”

“I’m not instructed to state.”

“Are you instructed to take me for a boob? Do you observe a blithe and
vernal touch of green in my eye, Andy? When did Miss Ames put you up to
this?”

“Well, it’s good money, ain’t it?” blurted the discomfited general
manager.

“Too good. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“D’ you think I _wanted_ to do it!” retorted his aide in outraged tones.
“She made me. Did you ever try not to do something that little lady
wanted you to do? It can’t be done,” asserted Mr. Andrew Galpin
positively. “Andy, as a self-excuser you’re--”

“Ay-ah! I know. But you’ve been running this paper like you thought she
wanted it run over four years’ time and three thousand miles of ocean,”
 accused the other with unexpected vigor. “Have you or have n’t you?”

It was now the editor-in-chief’s turn to be disconcerted. “I’m busy,” he
said. He reached for the implement of his trade. “Who the hell put that
pen in that glue-pot!” he vociferated. Then, relieved by his little
outburst, he added, “Tell her we’re not for sale”; and, after Galpin’s
retreating back, he fired, “And tell her that as a secret negotiator
you’re about as subtle as a street-piano.”

Rejection of her bid did not appear to surprise Miss Ames. Coming upon
the proprietor of The Guardian on the street, some days later, by chance
(or did she, as Miss Pritchard accused, cunningly plan the encounter?)
she inquired if the price were not high enough.

“It’s no use, Marcia,” said Jem. “You can’t get in. I’m not going to let
you commit financial suicide.”

Marcia was in teasing mood that day. “I should be hardened to
disappointments and withered hopes, I suppose,” she sighed mockingly.
“Jem?”

“Yes?”

“Will you walk along with me? Or do you think it compromising to be seen
on the streets with the girl you have rejected?”

“Marcia,” groaned the tormented lover. “If you don’t stop that
I’ll--I’ll grab you up right here and carry you off.”

“That would commit you fatally,” she reminded him. “By the way, are you
never coming to see me again?”

“I’m all tied up with evening work, now.”

“Of course,” she assented with a gravity which, however, roused his
suspicions. “Are you going to Madam Taylor’s tea?”

“I’m not on Madam Taylor’s list, since I called her a tax-dodger.”

“I cannot imagine her dodging anything; not even a taxi, let alone a
tax. She is so dignified and positive and ‘sot.’ Will you come if I get
you an invitation?”

“What for?”

Marcia’s delicate mouth drooped exaggeratedly. “If I must be a sister
to you,” she murmured, “that is surely no reason why we should not meet
occasionally.”

“Oh, I’ll come!” said Jem wildly. “I’d walk from here to New York just
to see you in the street, and you know it.”

“Jem!” she said with a change of tone. Her fingers just touched his hand
lightly. “It is a shame to tease you. But your Spartan rôle is such a
temptation!”

Madam Taylor, though she adored Marcia, flatly declined to invite
the editor of The Guardian. “That young mud-wasp” she termed him,
and advised the girl to beware of his specious claims to fairness and
rectitude. There would be plenty of other young men, far better worth
meeting, at her tea than young Robson. It was not any other young man,
however, whom the lovely Miss Ames selected for her special attention
at the tea, but, vastly to his surprise and not a little to his
gratification, Mr. Montrose Clark. There was nothing of the gallant
about the public utilitarian; he was the highly correct head of a
devoted family. But even in such, the aesthetic sense remains, and
Mr. Clark was conscious of a distinct interest arising from his being
selected for the special ministrations of the most attractive young
woman in Fenchester. When she had duly hemmed him into the corner of an
arbor with an impregnable fortification of Dresden and selected viands,
he made the start himself.

“I surrender,” he announced with ponderous playfulness. “What do you
want of me?”

“How unkind of you, Mr. Clark! I was about to try my craftiest wiles
upon you,” returned Miss Ames regretfully.

“Then it’s a subscription. I withdraw the white flag. I’ll fight.”

“Please! That is exactly what I do not wish you to do. I wish you to
make peace.”

“Have I a quarrel with you?”

“Not yet. With some friends of mine. With The Guardian.”

The public utilitarian’s expression changed; became more impersonal and
observant. “Young Robson,” he remarked. “He’s been talking to you.”

“No. It was Mr. Galpin that told me about it.”

“You’re his emissary?”

“Oh, no! You must not suppose that. I come to you quite of my own
accord.”

“Why this extreme interest in The Guardian, Miss Ames?”

“Because I--There is a reason for--Circumstances--”

“Over which you have no control,” suggested her vis-à-vis.

“Over which I have no control,” she accepted, and her hand went to her
throat--(Mr. Montrose Clark, seeing the swift color pulse into her
face, discarded Andrew Galpin from consideration and came back to Jeremy
Robson and wondered whether that pernicious journalist knew how lucky he
was), “have given me a--an interest, a responsibility--” Marcia Ames was
experiencing unwonted difficulties in explaining what was perhaps not
fundamentally clear to herself.

“I see,” answered the magnate mendaciously.

“If you saw as I see,” she retorted earnestly, “you would not be
opposing and trying to ruin The Guardian.”

“But bless my soul, my dear young lady! That is precisely what The
Guardian has been doing to me. You have n’t been reading it these few
years past.”

“Oh, yes. Every day. I do not pretend to understand that part of it.
But I do know this; that Mr. Rob--that The Guardian is making a fight
single-handed for the Nation and the war, and is being beaten because
those who should stand by it are not patriotic enough to forget old
scores. Have you stopped to think of that, Mr. Clark?” The magnate
shifted uncomfortably in his seat. To say that he had stopped to think
of this would be untrue. Rather, the thought had essayed to stop him and
force itself on his consideration with increasing pertinacity of late,
and he had barely contrived to dodge it and go on about his lawful
occasions. Now it challenged him in the clear regard of a very beautiful
and very determined young woman.

“No. Yes,” said Montrose Clark, and left that for her to take her
pick of. “One would n’t think you the kind to take such an interest in
politics.”

“Is this politics--exactly?” she asked quietly.

Upon Montrose Clark’s chubby facial contours appeared a heightened
color. “No; by thunder! It is n’t. Will you sit here, young lady, and
keep out of sight of pursuers until I can catch and fetch Selden Dana?”

Marcia had not long to wait. The Judge was retrieved from a circle of
the elderly, harmless, but influential, with whom he had been discussing
cures. The two men sat and drank more tea than was good for them, while
Marcia made her argument and plea. Then said Selden Dana to Montrose
Clark, smiling: “Let’s buy out The Guardian and turn it over to her to
run.”

“We might do worse,” conceded the magnate.

“It is not to be bought,” said Marcia.

“Have _you_ tried?” the lawyer flashed at her. “You have,” he answered
himself, marking the response in her face. “Well, I _am_ dashed!” He and
Montrose Clark exchanged glances. “Business is business,” observed the
lawyer with apparent irrelevance, but in the tone of one who strives to
recall a wandering purpose.

“Quite so!” murmured Montrose Clark. “Quite so!” But there was a lack of
conviction in his voice.

“Miss Ames,” said Dana, “I pride myself on being a judge of character.
Sometimes I meet a problem that puzzles me. Why has n’t Jem Robson gone
into uniform?”

“Do you think Mr. Robson is a slacker?” she shot back at him.

“Not if I read him right. That’s what puzzles me about his staying
behind.”

“Did it not occur to you that he has a more important fight here than
there?”

“It might occur to me,” admitted the lawyer. “But I don’t know that I’d
care to have it occur to a son of mine.”

She gave him her flashing smile. “That is clever of you,” she said.
“I like that! And now I will violate a confidence, but it must go no
farther. The doctor would not pass Mr. Robson for active service. Mr.
Galpin told me.”

“I never take an afternoon off,” sighed the lawyer, “but some obtrusive
business crops up and ruins the day’s sport. Let’s go down to the
office, Mr. Clark, and talk this over.”

One more bit of meddling with the irresponsible fates which rule men and
newspapers was committed by Miss Ames that afternoon. Magnus Laurens,
just off a train, came in late to the tea, and was straightway seized
upon.

“Uncle Magnus! Where have you been, all these weeks and months?”

“Well, Marcia!” He took both her hands and looked down into her face.
“What a sight you are! If you’re ever allowed to get away from America
again, I’ll lose all faith in our young manhood....Where have I been?
Here and there and everywhere. Organizing the State Council of Defense.
Raising money. Trips to Washington. Letting family and business go to
the bow-wows.”

“Are you in touch with Fenchester matters?”

“Hello! What’s this? You’re talking like a politician. After my vote?”

“Do you know that The Guardian has been making the fight almost alone
here against the anti-war crowd?” Magnus Laurens rubbed his big, gray
head perplexedly. “I’ve got to look into that situation. When Jeremy
Robson went back on us--”

“Jeremy Robson never went back on you! At least, not since war was
probable. And--and your company is choking The Guardian to death with a
contract dishonestly made by Senator Embree’s man, Verrall.”

“The devil! I beg your pardon, Marcia. Where did you learn these
interesting facts--if they are facts?”

“From Mr. Galpin.”

“Oh! Hardly a disinterested witness.”

“Uncle Magnus, I wish you to promise me just one thing.”

“Not so foolish! What is it?”

“I wish you to go to the Library this evening--no matter how busy you
are--and go over the files of The Guardian since last March.”

“I’ll do that much,” he agreed.

“Then you will do more,” said Marcia contentedly. That first day’s
confabulation between Marcia and Galpin, the scope of which its object,
Jeremy Robson, little suspected, was bearing fruit.




CHAPTER XVI

LONG years unheard yet unforgotten, the voice of Edwin Garson,
President Montrose Clark’s hand-perfected private secretary, warbled
with a mellifluous intonation over the telephone wire into the surprised
ear of The Guardian’s editor and owner.

“Hello! Hello? _Hel_-lo!... This Mr. Robson?... Office of the Fenchester
Public Utilities. Mr. Montrose Clark wishes to see you.”

An unfortunate formula. It recalled the vivid past. One sweetly solemn
thought in Jeremy’s mind was forthwith transmuted into one briefly
pregnant speech which shocked the private secretary clean off the
wire. Jeremy resumed his editorializing. His next interruption, to his
incredulous astonishment, took the important form and presence of Mr.
Montrose Clark himself. Mahomet had come to the mountain.

At Jeremy’s invitation Mr. Clark disposed his neat and pursy form upon
the far edge of a chair impressively, yet with obvious reservations, as
one disdaining to concede anything to comfort. Embarrassment might
have been conjectured in one less august. His voice was as stiff as his
posture as he began:

“I had my secretary telephone you, Mr. Robson.”

“I got your message.”

“And I your reply, which, as transmitted to me, was that I might go to
the devil!”

“I think I mentioned the place, not the proprietor.”

“It does not signify. I am here”--there was no glimmer of light on the
round red countenance to suggest an ulterior meaning--“I am here on a
matter of business, in my capacity as acting president of the Drovers’
Bank in Mr. Warrington’s absence. As such, I have to inform you that we
stand ready to make you a loan on favorable terms upon the security of
The Guardian.”

“Wh-wh-why?” stammered Jeremy, taken wholly aback. “Do you consider the
paper a sound risk now?”

“Sufficiently sound.”

“Up to what amount?”

“Any amount you need.”

Jeremy stared at him, unbelieving.

“No security I can furnish now is as good as that which you rejected
before.”

“That may very well be true.”

“Yet your offer is still open?”

“It is.”

“Ah, yes!” said Jeremy, thinking slowly and carefully. “You’re assuming
that, with the change in the local political situation, The Guardian is
going to shift its principles. Well, Mr. Clark, if you expect that we’re
going back one inch from the stand we’ve taken on public utilities, and
the P.-U. Corporation in particular, you’re badly fooled. We’re just as
much against you as if we were still for Governor Embree. I thought I
had made that clear to Judge Dana.”

“I have proposed no bargain,” stated the magnate aridly. “I make an
offer. No conditions are attached.”

“Then I’ve got to tell you frankly that we’re not doing very well.”

“So I am informed. What appears to be the trouble? Will the new paper
cut into your circulation to an extent--”

“Newspapers do not live by circulation alone, Mr. Clark, but chiefly by
advertising.”

“Certainly; certainly. Local merchants appear to be pretty well
represented in your pages.”

“At reduced space--or worse. Take the case of Vogt, the florist, who has
always been good for a hundred dollars a month with us. Perhaps you can
point out Mr. Vogt’s present space in The Guardian.”

The visitor ran through the paper handed to him.

“I fail to find Mr. Vogt’s advertisement.”

“He’s out.”

“Why?”

“Because The Guardian has been ‘corrupted by British gold.’”

“Indeed! Did he express that theory to you personally?”

“He did. He also instructed me as to running my paper, and gave me the
outlines of an editorial demanding that none of our soldiers be sent
abroad to help in the war. When I said that I was n’t interested
in pro-German strategy he said something else, in German, which
unfortunately I understand a little; and then ‘Police!’”

“Police?” repeated Mr. Clark, with hopeful interest. “Why did he say
that?”

“I suppose he thought I was going to throw him downstairs. I was n’t. I
left him carefully on the top step.” Signs of perturbation appeared upon
the visage of the little magnate. He rose. His projective eyes appeared
no longer to feel at home in his face. They roved afar. “Police!” he
murmured, and added “Ah!” in a curious, relishing tone. Suddenly he
thrust out a pudgy hand, clawed at Jeremy’s unready fingers, murmured
“Count on us, Mr. Robson, for anything we can do!”--and stalked out.

“Now, how do you account for him?” inquired Jeremy, referring the matter
to Galpin, who had come in to announce another withdrawal.

“Oh, him!” Galpin turned the public utilitarian over in his mind,
considering him on all sides. “Wants to use us to club the Governor, I
reckon. Now that we’ve quit ‘Smiling Mart,’ plenty of our old enemies
will be willing to play with us on the theory that there’ll be a change
in policy.”

“They’ll have to make a better guess than that.”

“I guess you’re right, Boss,” sighed the other. “Even if we did borrow,
it’d only be postponing the finish. Things won’t get any better for
us while the war is on. And when the showdown comes where would The
Guardian be if we were in for twenty thousand more?”

“In the hands of the Drovers’ Bank.”

“There or thereabouts. Well, I can’t just see us being editorial
copy-boys for President Puff. Can you?”

“Not exactly! Yet, you know, Andy, he gave me almost the impression of
being really for us.”

“Well, it’s possible, Boss; it’s just possible”--the other’s shrewd face
was puckered in conjecture--“that he might consider this war thing more
important than his own little interests. A man who thinks different from
us on every other blooming subject under the sun might be every bit as
real an American when it comes to the pinch. Ever think of that, Boss?”

“Not just that way.”

“Time enough to find out. Where the lion jumps, the jackal follows. See
if Old Slippery Dana does n’t come round in the next few days.”

Come round Judge Dana did. That candid honesty of expression and
demeanor which had aided him in pulling off some of his most dubious
tricks was never more markedly in evidence than when he shook hands with
Jeremy.

“Ever give any thought to the libel suits against you in the office of
Dana & Dana?” he began.

“Some.”

“Bother you any?”

“I’m not losing sleep over them.”

“Now, I’ll admit candidly,” said the lawyer, “that a couple of ’em
are no good. They’re dead. But there’s merit in Madam Taylor’s case. You
went too far there. Your own lawyers will tell you that.”

“They have,” said Jeremy incautiously, and bit his lip.

“Well, in spite of that, I’ve come to tell you that we’ve advised our
client to withdraw the action.”

“Have you?” said the editor warily. “Why?”

“Call it friendship.”

“On your part? For The Guardian?”

“We-ell; say it’s because I foresee that the paper is going to have
plenty of troubles of its own without our adding to them.”

“You haven’t always been so solicitous as to The Guardian’s welfare.”

“Meaning that you would like to understand the reason for my present
solicitude?”

“_Timeo Danaos_,’” quoted Jem. “I fear the Danas bearing gifts.”

The lawyer smiled his appreciation.

“I’ve given you the best reason I know.”

“Did Montrose Clark send you here?”

“You don’t like Mr. Clark much, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Nor me, either, perhaps?”

“I blush to say that I rather do.”

“But you don’t trust me.”

“Oh, come, Dana! What would you expect!”

“Just for relaxation of the mind, my young friend, what do you think of
me?”

“Straight?”

“Straight.”

“I think you’re a slippery old legal crook,” returned Jeremy without
hesitation.

“And I think you’re a flitter-witted young fool--ninety-nine times out
of a hundred!”

“And the hundredth?”

“That’s what I’m looking at now. By God, you’re an American,
anyway! Here, Jem,” he leaned across the table, extending a bony and
argumentative forefinger; “if you and I were in the trenches, fighting
shoulder to shoulder, it would n’t make a pickle’s worth of difference
whether you were a sapheaded loon or not, or whether I was a crook or a
thief or a murderer, or not. All we’d have to ask of each other would be
that we were fighting in the same cause, and with the last drop of our
blood, and to the finish! Am I right?”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Well, then! What’s this we’re up against right here in Fenchester? Are
we fighting? Or playing tiddledy-winks?”

“There’s very little tiddledywinks in it, so far as The Guardian is
concerned,” confessed Jeremy with a wry face.

“So far as any of us are concerned. It’s coming to the place where it’s
a case of get together and stick together for us Americans. Seen Magnus
Laurens since the Governor’s little soirée?”

“No,” answered Jem, flushing.

“Laurens thought you were in on Embree’s deal. Why don’t you put him
right?”

“He can put himself right,” returned the editor shortly.

“Hardly that; but he can be put right. There are a lot of things that
ought to be put right for you, my boy. Things that have been wrong for a
long time.”

He leaned to Jeremy again, his long face alight with an eager and
innocent candor.

“Jem, there’s no use fighting your friends. The people that can help
you, the people that are the real Americans of your kind, you’ve always
opposed. Come in with us now. There’s nothing that won’t be done for you
and The Guardian. I’m going to talk plain talk. Isn’t it about time you
made up your mind to be good?”

“How be good? What’s on the carpet now?”

“Why, this fight against the pacifists and pro-Germans.”

“You don’t have to tell me to be good for that. Something else is up.”
 He eyed the lawyer with a bitter grin. “I might have known you had
something up your sleeve. What is it, the Blanket Franchise Bill again?”

“That’s a perfectly fair bill,” defended the visitor. “But for The
Guardian, it would have gone through before. Now--”

“Now we’ll kill it again if it shows its crooked head. Tell Montrose
Clark that from me. And tell him that I won’t need any loan from the
Drovers’ Bank to do it.”

“Very well,” sighed the lawyer. “No hard feelings, my boy. Business is
business.”

Reporting to his chief, Dana stated:

“He won’t dicker.”

“As I told you,” replied Montrose Clark in pompous self-appreciation of
his own prophecy.

“Well, no harm in trying.... We can pass the Blanket Franchise Bill
after The Guardian is dead.”

“How long can it last?”

“Not three months, according to what I can gather.” The president of the
Fenchester Public Utilities Corporation began to puff up and grow red in
the face and squirm in his seat. Finally it came out explosively: “Dana,
I don’t want to pass the damned bill--at that price.”

“Neither do I.”

“You know, I--I almost like that young fool.”

“So do I.”

“Well, what are we going to do?”

“Pull him through whether he wants our help or not. We can fight him for
the Franchise Bill after the war.”

“Go to it!” returned the president of the Fenchester Public Utilities
Company with unwonted energy and slang.

As the first fruits of that confabulation between two of Jeremy Robson’s
oldest enemies The Guardian received on the following day a contract
from the P.-U. for advertising space amounting to sixteen hundred
dollars a year. Jeremy reckoned that with grim satisfaction, as giving
the paper a few days more of life. On the following morning there came a
far more important help in the form of ‘a brief and characteristic note
from Magnus Laurens, the pith of which was in these sentences:

_I hope you will accept my sincere apologies. Enclosed find contract
with the Oak Lodge Pulp Company, which, I have reason to believe, was
made under a misapprehension as to quality of paper. Kindly make out new
contract at three cents and three quarters if acceptable._

Andy Galpin’s philosophical estimate--“Every bit as real an American,
when it comes to the pinch”--reverted to Jeremy’s mind. A sudden
humility tempered his spirit. He felt that The Guardian was a pretty big
thing and he a pretty small one. Well, in what time remained he would
fight with a new vigor and for a broader ideal. It would not be long.
Magnus Laurens’s generosity meant only a respite; perhaps two or three
months extra of fighting the good fight. In the owner’s heart was no
self-deception as to the inevitable outcome. Meantime the paper might
yet beat Martin Embree and save Centralia from the disgrace of sending
the chosen prophet of Deutschtum to the United States Senate.

And just for itself, how well worth fighting for and with to the finish
was the battered, gallant old Guardian! Jeremy thought of his paper as
a Captain might think of his ship staggering, unconquered but hopeless,
through her last storm to her last port; thought of her with that sort
of devotion, of passion. And the precious freight of hope and faith
and belief that she carried, the loyal confidence of the simple, clean,
honest people for whom he had made the paper!

Strange and unexpected accessions had come to that number; none stronger
than the stubborn and violent jeweler, Bernard Stockmuller, who had
abused Jeremy on the street after the first trouble with the Deutscher
Club.

On the morning after the Constantia was sunk, with the first American
naval victims, an event upon which Jeremy had poured out the hot
fervency of his patriotism, his door was thrust open and the powerful
form of the German burst in. His face was a dull, deep red. His eyes
protruded. He was gasping.

Believing that he had to do with a man crazed by fury, Jeremy jumped
to his feet and set himself. The expected rush followed, but ended in a
stagger, a gulp, and a burst of unashamed tears.

“Dot bee-ewtiful tribude!” sobbed the emotional German. “Dot bee-ewtiful
tribude dot you haf printed in your paper to our boys. To my boy!”

“Your boy? Why, Stockmuller, I did n’t know--”

“All the boy I got. My nephew, Henry. Him I brought up and put through
the Ooniversity. He iss dead. He hass gone down in the Constantia. I
am glad he iss dead so splendid! I am proud when I read what you have
written. Und--und, Mr. Robson, I wand you should--I wand you should--”

“Go on, Stockmuller,” said Jeremy gently, as the other stopped with a
pleading look. “Of course I’ll do it--whatever it is you want.”

“I wand you should take my ad back,” said Stockmuller as simply as a
child.

“You bet I’ll take it back!”

“Mind! I dink you wass wrong, first off,” said the honest and obstinate
German. “I dink Inkland made dis war. But my Henry, all the boy I got,
if he iss only a nephew, iss dead for dis country. And now dis iss my
country and my war!”

“All right, Stockmuller. Glad to have you with us,” was all that Jeremy,
pretty well shaken by the other’s emotion, found to say. The visitor
produced a large and ornate handkerchief, wherewith he openly wiped his
swollen eyes.

“Also, dere is someding else,” he stated, lowering his voice. The editor
looked his inquiry. “Monkey business with your printer-men.”

“Yes; I know something about that.”

“Do you know when they strike?”

“No. When?”

“The day before the new paper comes out.”

Jeremy whistled softly.

“Of course! That’s when they would, assuming that it’s a put-up job from
outside. Where do you get your information?--if it’s a fair question.”

Stockmuller turned a painful red.

“I was on der Deutscher Club committee,” he said. “The segret committee.
No more!”

“Who are the men in our press-room they’re working through?”

The visitor shook his head. “Weiss nicht,” he murmured.

“Never mind; I know! I’ll start something for ’em before they’re
ready.”

Jem had now definitely fixed upon Nick Milliken, the white-haired,
vehement Socialist, as the chief instigator of trouble upstairs. He no
longer suspected Milliken of being in the underground employ of Montrose
Clark and Dana. He believed him to be the agent of Bausch and the
Deutscher Club committee. He sent for the man and discharged him.
Milliken took his discharge, at first, in a spirit of incredulity.

“Me?” he said. “What have you got it in for me for?”

“You’re a trouble-maker. That’s enough.”

“Because I’m a Socialist? Look-a-here, Mr. Robson--”

“There’s no use in arguing, Milliken. I won’t have you around.”

“Give me a week,” said the other. “I can tell you some--”

“Not a day! Get your pay this noon.”

The man hesitated; then with a sardonic, but not particularly hostile
grin he bade his employer good-day.

“Now for the strike!” said Jeremy to Andy Galpin.

But the strike did not come. Evidently the manipulators in the
background would bide their own time.




CHAPTER XVII

BEHOLD, now, Miss Marcia Ames, conspiratress, seated in the depths of
the Boot & Shoe Infirmary, deep in converse with Dr. Eli Wade, Surgeon
of Soles and Healer of Leather. Opinion was always to be had at the
Sign of the Big Shoe; often information; sometimes wisdom. Miss Ames was
seeking light upon her problem wherever she might find it. Her scheme
for Magnus Laurens had been successful; that in which Montrose Clark was
to have played the Beneficent Influence, had prospered in part; yet The
Guardian’s downhill pace had been only mitigated, not checked. Methods
more radical must be found. Eli Wade proved at least a friendly, if not
a broad-visioned consultant.

“A fighter, thet young man is,” said Eli Wade. “He don’t go stumblin’,
any more. Straight, he goes. And if he falls at the end, it’ll be in the
best fight any man ever made in this town against a gang of snakes and
traitors.”

“But he must not fall, Eli!” cried the girl. “We must not let him fall.”

“Ah! Thet’s the talk! If them as had oughta stood by him had done so,
he’d be all right to-day.”

“Who? Why have they failed him? Is it that they do not understand?”

“Blind,” said Eli Wade. “They don’t see. They’re millin’ round wherever
the Germans and the slick politicians drive ’em. If ever I was
fooled in a pair o’ shoes it was them Number Eights of ‘Smilin’ Mart’
Embree’s.”

“But your kind of people, Eli! Simple, straight, honest people. Why
would they not stand by The Guardian?”

“Bless your soul! They do. They’re solid. It’s the advertisers thet are
trippin’ up his feet.”

“So Mr. Galpin says. The stores.”

“Yes. The stores support the newspapers with their advertising, an’ so
they rule or ruin ’em.”

“When have they ruled The Guardian?”

“Never. Nick Milliken says thet’s what’s wrong. Thet’s why they’re
against it. He says if you could get at what supports the stores an’
work on thet, The Guardian might be pulled out yet. I got my own notions
about thet.”

“About what supports the stores? The public, does it not?”

“Part of the public.”

“What part?”

“Women-folks,” said the Boot & Shoe Surgeon tersely.

Upon that pronouncement Marcia Ames pondered. There seemed to be a gleam
in it. The more she thought, the more the gleam expanded. It became a
ray of light.

“The women!” she said. “Of course they do. Who ever saw a man in a
department store?”

“Well, I would n’t go thet far,” returned the Surgeon. “I reckon they’s
a few. But they don’t wear out much sole leather there. And if any one
was to say to The Big Shop or The Northwestern, or Ellison Brothers or
any of them big advertisers, ‘We’ll take the women-folks away, but you
can keep the men,’ thet store would about close its doors next week.”

Marcia Ames rose out of her deep chair. There was a glow on her face.
“Eli Wade,” she said, “you are a great man!”

“No, _ma’am_,” disclaimed the other. “Jest a handy man with leather.”

“Well, you are a dear! And that is better. I believe--I do believe--you
have shown the way. If only there is time! I am going to take your big
idea to high legal talent for consultation.”

“Hain’t had any big idea sence”--his old, keen eyes twinkled--“sence the
State Capitol flew the German flag in honor of the Surrender Bill. But
who’s your legal talent?”

“Judge Selden Dana.”

“You’re the wonder, Miss Marcia. How’d you know you could trust him? He
ain’t always been reckoned trustable.”

“No? But in a matter like this--I am sure.”

“Kee-rect! You got him. He’s marchin’.”

“Marching?”

“To the music of war. He’s quit slinkin’. Left--right, left--right! True
to the drum. Watch his feet.”

“Good-bye, Eli Wade,” said Marcia. “If your big idea works out--I shall
love you forever.”

To Judge Selden Dana, when she unfolded it, it seemed more like her own
idea. Unquestionably, however, it was a promising one. If there were
only time! If the scheme could be set afoot before The Fair Dealer was
in the field; if some way could be found to delay the publication--at
which point Judge Dana fell to thinking powerfully. All the pleasant
candor went out of his face, as he pondered, and it became subtle and
secret and dark. Yet the girl, watching, liked it and trusted it none
the less in this manifestation. She knew that the mind within was
working to good ends. At length he spoke.

“I’ve got a plan for The Fair Dealer. No; never mind what it is. Forget
that we even spoke of it.”

“It is forgotten.”

“Go ahead with the women. Mr. Clark and I will help where we can. You
can organize the University girls?”

“Yes.”

“Good! One more thing. Not a whisper of this to Jem Robson.”

“Mr. Robson knows nothing of it. What I have learned has been from Mr.
Galpin.”

“Nor to Galpin, either. Or any one else at The Guardian.”

“Have you a fancy to play at mysteries and secrets, Judge Dana?” teased
the girl.

“Mysteries? Secrets? Great Scott, young woman! Collusions and
conspiracies! Trust an old fox of the law. If it should come to an issue
and it could be shown that The Guardian people had knowledge of your
precious little plot--well, I should n’t care to have the case to
defend. So, work as quietly as you can. I think a hundred women--if
they’re representative, mind you,--will about do the business.”

He contemplated her, with a gentle light in his pinched, wrinkled,
shrewd old eyes. “My dear,” he said, “I remember four years ago, at the
Federated German Societies, how you stood up, straight and brave, before
all of them.”

“Do you?” said Marcia, answering his smile.

“You’re still doing it. Still standing up as you did then. I’d do a good
deal for you, if it were only in memory of that.”

“Thank you, Judge Dana,” she said simply.

“And I’d do a good deal for that young hot-head, Jem Robson. About
anything I could do, I guess.”

“Thank you,” said the girl again, but there was a thrill in her voice
this time.

Into the devious ways of the legal profession and of railroad operation
when they run parallel it is not meet for the layman to inquire too
closely. Suffice it to say here that Judge Selden Dana took a brief
trip to the office of a certain railway system, and thence followed up
a certain consignment of freight which subsequently became the innocent
victim of cross-orders to the extent of getting itself mysteriously and
obscurely side-tracked while certain interests in Fenchester afflicted
the heavens above, the earth beneath, the Postal Telegraph, the Western
Union, and all the long-distance wires with frantic inquiries. Further
it may be stated that this sort of law-and-railroad practice is such as
would have been severely condemned by Mr. Jeremy Robson, editor of
The Guardian, had he known of it. He knew nothing. There were many and
important matters happening at this time whereof he knew nothing.

This matter having been arranged, Judge Dana made an appointment by
telephone, and called to see Jeremy.

“Got another dicker to suggest, Judge?” the editor greeted him, with
indulgent raillery.

“No,” returned the caller slowly; “no dicker. This is serious business,
young man. How long are you going to be able to hold out?”

“Don’t you worry about us,” said Jeremy, who had n’t the smallest
intention of betraying the paper’s status to the wily lawyer. “There’s a
lot of fight left in the old hulk yet.”

“What about this strike?”

“So you’ve heard about that?”

“I’ve seen Milliken.”

“Milliken is fired.”

“So he told me.”

“How came you to be on such close terms with a rank Socialist?” taunted
the editor.

“I’ll be on terms with a rattlesnake if he’ll play my game,” replied the
lawyer with one of those bursts of frankness wherewith he occasionally
favored Jeremy. “Never mind Milliken now. Can you beat out this strike
if it comes?”

Suddenly Jeremy looked tired and old.

“I don’t know,” he said lifelessly.

“Is there any danger of The Guardian having to give up in the next
month?”

“It’s getting harder sledding all the time,” confessed Jeremy. “The
strike might finish us, at that.”

“Publication date of The Fair Dealer is postponed two weeks,” observed
the lawyer.

“No! What’s caused that?”

“How should I know? They say part of the machinery has been lost in
transit. It was shipped via the Lake Belt Line, for which I happen to
be counsel. But I can’t imagine”--he paused, and Jeremy saw a distinct,
enlightening flicker of his left eyelid--“I can _not_ imagine what has
caused the unfortunate delay! I should think there might be danger of
their losing some of their promised advertising!”

“Oh, their contracts are all made. Trust Verrall for that.”

“Doubtless. But will they hold? I understand they specified an issue of
July 5th.”

“What of it?” said Jeremy wearily. “The advertisers will make new
contracts. You could n’t pry ’em away from that twenty-five thousand
circulation at the low rate given.”

“Who knows what the morrow may bring forth?” said the lawyer oracularly.
“‘I could a tale unfold’--” He stopped, with a large gesture.

“There’s always a cloven hoof that goes with your kind of tail,”
 retorted Jeremy. “But if you’ve really got anything cheery up your
sleeve, spring it. I could do with a little cheering-up right now. That
postponement of publication is a good start. What’s next?”

“My son, the less you know just now, the better. But I’ll tell you this:
Some of us who are--well--interested in The Guardian, for reasons of our
own, are skating on the thin edge of conspiracy, treason, stratagem, and
crime, as it is. Do you want in? You do not want in! You stay out and
keep a stiff upper lip. Can’t use any of our spare cash? No! Well, if
your neck was a little stiffer it’d break! Good-bye, and hang on!”

All of which Jeremy promptly retailed to the faithful Galpin with the
comment:

“Something’s certainly up, but how much is for us, and how much for
Clark, Dana & Company, I don’t know.”

“You got a mean, suspicious sort of mind, Boss,” grinned the general
manager. “But I admit I don’t get that bunch yet.”

“Nor I. But I’m watching.”

“Somebody’s pushing on the reins upstairs again. If the strike don’t
bust this week, I’m a goat! I caught Milliken hanging round yesterday
and chased him out. Gave him the police talk.”

“Dana knew all about Milliken and the strike. Had it from Milliken
himself.”

“Wheels and wheels and wheels!” commented Andy, making expansive and
elegantly rounded gestures. “Wheels within wheels; wheels without
wheels; wheels going in opposite directions and at different speeds.
They make me dizzy!”

They made Jeremy dizzy, too. At least, something made him dizzy. He was
dizzy a good deal of the time, and tired. Very tired. He thought that
some vague and hopeful day he’d take a week off. When things quieted
down. When Andy’s anathematized “Botches” let up on the paper. When
advertisers ceased to trouble. When the whole show was over and the
final issue of The Guardian had closed with its final challenge to the
forces of Deutschtum. When his heart stopped crying out for Marcia.

Meantime he wearily wished he could get a night’s sleep.




CHAPTER XVIII

SUCH advantage as the bee may boast over the butterfly is proverbially
supposed to inhere in its industrious habits. But Miss Marcia Ames,
now adopting the schedule of the bee at its busiest, found her earlier
butterfly proclivities of advantage in that they had put her in touch
with certain flowers of Fenchester’s social world with which the
harder-worked honey-collector might not have been so familiar. Visiting
these upon her proselytizing errand, this enterprising flitter, still
trailing clouds of glory from her butterflyhood, left behind her the
fructifying pollen of the Great Idea. In one respect--to carry the
entomological metaphor a step farther--she was like a moth rather than
either the butterfly or the bee, since her good works, to be effective,
must needs be carried on in the dusk of a semi-secrecy.

Behold our bee, now, hovering about the garden of that ancient but still
lively wasp, Madam Dorothea Taylor, until bidden to alight and state
her errand, whereof the venerable one, having already received some hint
from her friend, Letitia Pritchard, is alertly suspicious. Accepting the
invitation, the visiting bee leads up diplomatically to the first point
of risk, the name of Jeremy Robson.

“A slanderer!” rasps the wasp. “A character-robber. A rag-tag and
bob-tail cheap-and-nasty politician!”

The bee goes on with her musical, conciliatory, and soothing song, and
presently mentions The Guardian.

“Don’t name the rag to me!” blares the enraged wasp. “A filthy sheet!
The poison of asps! A mud-slinger! A tool of that torch-and-scaffold,
anarchistic harlequin, Martin Embree.”

“Have you read it lately?” queries the bee. “God forbid! I would n’t
endure a copy in the house.”

“How fortunate,” hums the bee sweetly, “that I brought only small
portions of one or two copies.”

Cleverly stimulating the other’s curiosity, our cunning bee succeeds
in persuading her to look at the clipping wherein Martin Embree,
Emil Bausch, and the Kaiser stand forth wreathed in the olive of a
mock-pacifism. Now is the wasp’s angry voice hushed, as she peruses this
and follows it with the now famous “hyphen” editorial, and the political
quittance of Martin Embree.

“He appears to have lost none of his venom,” observes the reader,
“though he is now turning it against his own kind.”

“They are not his own kind!” The bee for the moment forgets that she
is committed to the soft footing of diplomacy. “I will not hear it said
that they are his own kind! We are his own kind: we Americans!”

“Hoity-toity and here’s a to-do!” cries the aged wasp. “Are we, indeed?
Not I, you minx! That gullible old fool, Selden Dana, has been preaching
from the same text. He wheedled me into withdrawing my libel suit
against the young backbiter. Why I was silly enough to do so, _I_ don’t
know. Now, what are you asking me to do?”

“Help,” answers the visiting bee, and sets forth a general outline of
her plan.

“Boycott,” observes the shrewd old wasp, after turning it over in her
mind.

“Oh, not in the least!” disclaims the bee. “That would be illegal.”

“Pooh! Who cares for laws! Boycott it is, against any merchant who won’t
support The Guardian. Is n’t it?”

“It might appear--”

“Appear! Don’t hem-and-haw with me, Miss Pert. I can hire Dana to do
that. You’re asking the women of this city to boycott the stores that
boycott The Guardian.”

“Dear me, no!” returns the bee demurely. “We are only suggesting a
practical method of showing appreciation of Mr. Rob--of The Guardian’s
patriotic course. And if you will join our little association and bring
your Red Cross work down with you for a few minutes each morning, that
is all we ask of you.”

“Of me! There’s the point. _Me!_ I’ve been libeled and slandered and
traduced and held up to public scorn,” sizzles the wasp (who had, since
the withdrawal of the suit, enjoyed one last reading of Judge Dana’s
comprehensive complaint with stimulating influence upon her style), “and
now you have the assurance to ask me to rush to the aid of this reckless
young muck-raker. It’s absurd! It’s outrageous! It’s an impudence! It’s
an imposition! It’s--it’s--I’ll do it.”

“I knew you would,” softly says the bee (who had n’t known anything of
the sort, and has, indeed, dreaded this visit above all others). “I do
not think you will ever be sorry.”

“I hope _you_ won’t,” retorts the wasp vigorously and significantly.
“That’s a dangerous character, that young Robson. Have a care of him!”

Having made captive her most difficult subject, the missionary bee now
descends upon one hardly less difficult, Mrs. Vemam Merserole,
wife (and, if rumor be correct, head of the house) of the
“nickel-in-the-slot” corner. Mrs. Merserole, looking meek, according to
her practice, but stubborn, according to her character, harks back to
past injuries, and talks darkly of defamers of character as one might
say “persecutors of the saints.”

“That was before we were at war, Mrs. Merserole,” her caller reminds
her.

Mrs. Merserole looks up quickly from her clasped hands. “You think that
to-day Mr. Robson would not make an unprincipled attack upon--upon a
clergyman who did nothing more than his duty?”

Diplomatic though her errand be, Marcia will not pass this challenge to
her truthfulness. “I do not say that. Nor do I admit that what he wrote
was unprincipled. He wrote what he believed. He would do that again
to-morrow. But I do know that he is a broader and more charitable man
than he was then.”

“War does not change men’s characters, Miss Ames,” says the rector’s
wife austerely.

“Then God help the men!” bursts out Marcia. “And God help the country!”

“Why, my dear!” says the older woman, shaken by the girl’s vehemence.
“You think it does? Perhaps you’re right. Yes; I think you’re right. But
Mr. Robson--”

“Mrs. Merserole,” breaks in Marcia with apparent irrelevance, “I have
heard that your boy picked out the aviation service because it is the
most dangerous, and that you told him that he had done what you would
choose him to do.”

The other does not reply. But her lips quiver, and her tightly clasped
fingers press in on each other. Marcia lays her warm, strong little hand
over them.

“You have done a great thing like that. And now I ask you to do a little
thing. To forget an old injury.”

“But Mr. Merserole--he feels toward The Guardian--I cannot express it to
you,” falters the other.

“The Guardian is a forlorn hope,” returns Marcia. “Mr. Robson is
sacrificing it and with it all his ambitions and his future for the sake
of a principle. That is his part in the war; the only part he can play.”

“Is it? I had heard otherwise.”

“What have you heard?”

“That he persuaded a doctor to declare him unfit.”

“That is a lie,” declares Marcia calmly, and gives the facts. “Who told
you the lie?” she asks, at the close of the recital.

The other hesitates. “Mrs. Robert Wanser,” she says, at length. “I will
speak to the rector about your plan,” she adds, and, by her tone, Marcia
knows that she has won another recruit.

So from house to house flits the busy bee, arguing here, pleading
there, feeling her way cautiously in doubtful places and always imposing
secrecy until the organization shall be completed; enlisting trustworthy
lieutenants,--Miss Pritchard; little Anne Serviss, vice-president of the
senior class at Old Central; Magnus Laurens’s daughter, who comes
down from the country to hot and dusty Fenchester to help; Miss Abbie
Rappelje, sister of the Professor of Economics; Mrs. Montrose Clark;
and, chiefest of all, the wary and wily Judge Selden Dana,... who, by
the way, is working out a little scheme of his own all the time, in
which Marcia is no more than a pawn, and without saying a word to her
about it. Trust Dana for that!

*****

While these processes were moving more or less bumpily on their
appointed course outside The Guardian office, those wheels within
wheels, upon which Andrew Galpin had philosophically animadverted, were
whirling at an accelerated pace inside. The postponement of The Fair
Dealer’s publication day had been a blow to certain developing plans in
The Guardian’s press-room. When a labor leader has sedulously fomented
ill-feeling, worked it almost to the point of explosion, promised the
malcontents another job at increased pay if they strike to order on a
certain date, and then had that date unavoidably postponed, his position
becomes difficult and his next step doubtful. Such was the situation in
the press-room of The Guardian. It was accentuated by the fact that The
Guardian’s editor had taken to editorializing quite frankly upon certain
developments in the labor world outside, thereby furnishing extra
incentive to the waiting strikers, for, radical though he was, Jeremy
held himself as free to criticize labor as capital when he deemed it in
the wrong. In fact he was in the midst of a mid-afternoon editorial for
the morrow on “Labor and the War,” when he came out of the fog of mental
toil into a sensation of something wrong, something lacking. The presses
had stopped. Surely it was n’t time for the run to be over! No; his
watch marked four-ten.

From above sounded the scuffling of feet; a door opened and a furious,
hard-breathing voice shouted an oath. Now there was a hubbub of voices,
dull in the distance, and the floor shook lightly under some impact.
Jeremy got to his feet, shaking and sweating. To such a condition of
nerves had the overwork and overstrain of the last few weeks reduced
him. He forced himself toward the door--when, with a roar and a clack,
the presses took up their rhythm again, making sweet music for the
relief of his beleaguered mind.

He returned to his editorial. But the savor of the work had gone. He
was too deeply preoccupied with what had happened upstairs. That was
Galpin’s department; he made it a practice not to interfere. Yet, until
the last run was off the presses and the machinery was silenced, he sat,
intent and speculating.

The clang of a gong sounded outside. From his window he caught a glimpse
of a departing ambulance. Was there some connection between that and the
turmoil above? The men had not come down, though it was past time. He
decided to go to the press-room and investigate.

On the top step he stopped short. Somebody was making a speech. Surely
that was Nick Milliken’s voice--Milliken, who had been threatened with
arrest if he returned! Milliken’s voice and Milliken’s propaganda, for
he was saying:

“Some day we’ll own this stick-in-the-mud old plant, all of us together.
We’ll own it and run it for the common good and the common profit. Some
day we’ll own all production, and run it for the common good and the
common profit! That’ll come. But that ain’t our job now, comrades. We’ve
got something else on hand, first.”

The editor and owner of the plant, thus cavalierly committed to common
control, laid his hand on the knob of the door, but paused to hear the
speaker’s next words:

“Now about this strike: I’m for the strike. I’m for any strike--at the
right time. But this ain’t the time. Lemme give you a little parable,
comrades.”

Jeremy sat upon the top step and listened to the parable of Milliken,
the Socialist. When it was over he tiptoed quietly down the stairs and
into his own office. There he lay in wait until he heard the meeting
break up and the tramp of descending feet. Standing sentry, he
intercepted the speaker and called him into the sanctum.

“Will you come back to the job?” said Jeremy.

“Sure!” returned the other. He was spent and haggard, but his eyes were
alight with triumph. “I was never off it.”

“I heard your speech--part of it--enough so I knew I had you wrong.”

“It did the business. The strike’s spoiled.”

“Off?”

“Might as well be. There’ll be six or seven Germans quit. But they can’t
do much without Girdner. He’s the one that’s been playing merry hell
with the whole show.”

“Where’s Girdner?”

“Hospital.”

“What happened to him?”

“He fell downstairs,” said Milliken casually but happily.

“Oh! Unassisted?”

“He threw me out of the meeting. Easy picking for him. You’d be
surprised to see how quick he hustled me through the door,” said the
other regretfully. “He might have hurt me bad; I would n’t be surprised.
He was real rough with me. Then, just as we got to the top of the
stairs, one of my arms took to flopping round kind of general, and he
got hit on the jaw. Queer how things come back to you!” observed the
white-haired Socialist, with surpassing innocence. “It never came into
my mind till then that I once spent two years in a fighters’ stable.”

“I see,” said. Jeremy thoughtfully. “No--I don’t know. I thought you
Socialists--”

“I thought you capitalists--” interrupted the other with instant retort.

Jeremy laughed.

“I guess you were an American before you were a Socialist.”

“When I can’t be both I’ll quit being either,” answered the other
fiercely.

“I do see!” said the other. “You’re in that same trench with Judge Dana,
where it makes no difference who or what a man is so long as he fights
on the level and to a finish.”

“I guess I am--comrade!” said Milliken, the Socialist.




CHAPTER XIX

SOMETHING queer happened to young Mr. Jeremy Robson on the night of July
10th. Despite a lumpy sensation in the back of his neck and his habitual
effect of being absolutely fagged out by the day’s work, he had gone to
bed with the resilient assurance of youth that he would awake refreshed
and fit in the morning. Instead, he woke up feeling aged beyond the
power of the mind to grasp: a mere crumbling ruin, compared to which the
pyramid of Cheops was a parvenu and the Druidic altars of Stonehenge
the mushroom growth of a paltry yesterday. Worse than this, there was a
dregsy, bitter taste in his soul. It grew and spread; and presently as
he lay miserably wondering at it, developed into a gall-and-worm-wood
loathing of the circumstanding world’s activities, but particularly
of his work, the purposeless, futile, inexorable toil of The Guardian,
daily re-galvanized into the appearance of life, but in reality doomed
to swift and hopeless dissolution.

For a moment his thoughts turned from hatred to Marcia. A receding
vision, “the lands of Dream among,” hopelessly beyond the reach of a
Failure. Inexpressibly old, Mr. Jeremy Robson wrote “Finis” upon the
scroll of his fate and sat up in bed the better to contemplate the
wreckage which had been himself. Immediately things began to revolve
in his head. Wheels. Andrew Galpin’s wheels. Wheels of all sizes
and brutally distorted shapes whirling in counter-directions with an
imbecile and nauseous suavity, weaving into unendurable patterns the
warp and woof of his comprehensive hatred.

“Bosh!” said Jeremy Robson. He stood up and promptly fell down.

“Too much pressure,” pronounced Doc Summerfield, arriving at speed. “You
stop, young man, or you’ll be stopped.”

“Give me something to steady me up,” begged Jeremy. “I’ve got to go to
the office to-day!”

“Have you?” returned the physician grimly. “Drink this.”

Sleep descended powerfully upon Jeremy, blotting out hatreds and worries
and all other considerations for the time. It held him in its toils for
successive days and nights; how many he could not have told. Once he
woke up, quite clear in his head, and looked out across a broad piazza,
through elms and shrubbery upon the crested lake, and was about to
congratulate himself upon his recovery (though he could not quite figure
out to what pleasant spot he had been translated) when Mrs. Montrose
Clark came into the room--which was, of course, delirium--and asked him
how he felt and whether he was hungry. Later Doc Summerfield arrived,
declined to explain, said, “Drink this” (he was always and forever
saying, “Drink this”) “and I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

So, on the morrow--or it might have been the following century for
all Jeremy knew--Doc Summerfield came back and delivered a syncopated
monologue:

“Yes. You are at Mr. Montrose Clark’s cottage.... No; you certainly
can’t go home. Don’t be a jackass!... No; the paper has n’t gone up.
It’s doing very well without you.... No; of course you’re not going down
to the office. Don’t be a fool!... Heart? No; it isn’t your heart. It’s
nerves. Overwork. That’s all. Don’t be a ninny.... Certainly you’ll be
all right. In a few days, if you’ll behave yourself and not act like a
blithering simpleton.... Drink this.”

What seemed to Jeremy so long and uncertain a period was, in reality,
only a little over a week. Came a day when the Montrose Clarks sent
him out for a ride with their chauffeur, otherwise unattended, and he
prevailed upon that guileless youth to take him to the office.

“Don’t wait. I’ll telephone,” said he, and made for his den.

At first, as he entered, he felt a qualm of nausea. This passed, to be
succeeded by a dull languor. He shook this off and, finding that wheels
no longer revolved within his head when he tried to think, he decided
that he was fit for work. Pursuing this theory, he settled to his
work-table when the door burst open and Andrew Galpin rushed in.

“Where the devil--” he began and started back as from an apparition.
“For the love of _Mike!_” he shouted. “Where did you come from?”

“The Montrose Clark cottage.”

“Go back! Get out! You ought to be in bed.”

“I have been. I’m tired of it.”

“What would Doc Summerfield say?”

“The usual thing: Drink this.’ What do you suppose he’d say to you?”

The general manager was red, perspiring, and disheveled, and there was a
vague, wild, and incomprehensible gleam in his eye.

“Me? What’s he got to do with me?”

“How do I know? You don’t look--well, normal.”

“Don’t I!” retorted his subordinate with some heat. “Then just lemme
tell you that I’m the only normal gink left in the business. I’m sane;
_that’s_ what’s the matter with _me!_ That’s what makes me look so queer
and feel so lonely.”

“You’d have to prove it to me,” retorted his chief. “That’s because
you’ve got it, too. Only yours takes a different form from the rest. Go
back to bed, Boss. But first, where’s that file of special contracts?”

“Try the cabinet there. What do you want of ’em?”

Galpin found the documents, and turned upon Jeremy. “Boss, this man’s
town had gone batty. Plumb bugs! Hopeless case.”

“You know what happens to a man who discovers that everybody else is
crazy, Andy.”

“It’s gone completely nuts over The Guardian,” pursued the other,
ignoring the intimation. “We’re a hobby. An obsession. A fad! A fashion!
A killing! A--”

“What’s got you, Andy?” asked the editor anxiously. “Come down to
earth.”

“Can’t! I’m a balloon. Watch me soar!” The usually stolid manager
performed a bacchanalian fling. “Contracts!” he panted. “Reams of ’em!
Money! Gobs of it! Circulation! Going uh-uh-up! Whee!”

“Andy, I’m not feeling very husky; but in a moment I shall throw you
down and sit on your neck.”

“Can’t be done! I could lick the Kaiser and all his Botches
single-handed. Boss, the luck has broke! The town is coming our way.”

“How? Why? What’s happened?”

“I’d like to tell you, but I have n’t got time. They’re waiting for me
downstairs.”

“Who?”

“Advertisers. Waiting to break into The Guardian. They’re lined up in
the hallways. I’ll have to issue rain-checks.”

“Stop talking like a lunatic, Andy, and explain.”

The demented manager perched upon the corner of the editorial table,
with an effect of being poised for instant flight.

“Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t. I tell you the advertisers of
this town have suddenly got a mania--and we’re the mania. It began two
days ago and it’s been growing worse right along. I did n’t think I’d
ever be able to break through to the office this morning. They waylaid
me on the way down. I don’t know who began it. I think it was Stormont,
of Stormont & Lehn. He fell out of a doorway on me, and when I got loose
there was a thousand-dollar advertising contract stuck down my collar.
Then old Pussy-foot Ellison came sobbing up the street--”

“What the devil--”

“Don’t interrupt me or I’ll bust! And never mind my metaphors. It comes
easier that way. Well, he blubbered out his sweet message of intending
to double his space in the paper instead of cutting us out; and before
I’d got his tears fairly brushed off my shoulder, Vogt, the Botch,
rushed in, threw his arms round my neck and tried to kiss me, and handed
me an eight-hundred-dollar-space order in lieu of damages; and asked
whether we would n’t like flowers sent round mornings, gratis! Boss, I
can just see you writing an editorial with one of Vogt’s tea-roses stuck
coyly behind your ear--”

“Never mind my ear. Go on!”

“How can I remember who mobbed me! I do recall that Arndt, of the
furniture shop, knocked me down and dragged me into an alley; and when
I came to there was a signed agreement to restore all the space they
lifted from us, and twenty-five per cent over and above. And, by the
way, I saw the Governor hiking into Bausch’s office and looking about as
cheerful as a banshee with a bellyache. Oh, there’s big doings of some
kind, you bet! All the morning the ’phone has been buzzing and--Who’s
that having hysterics in the hall?”

He threw open the door, and Mr. Adolph Ahrens, of The Great Northwestern
Stores, bounded in, uttering a wild, low wail, the burden of which
seemed to be something about a “misunderstanding.” He also mentioned the
word “blackmail,” and hastily retracted it. He had always, he asserted
passionately, been friendly to The Guardian. He admired it for its
lofty courage, its unfailing fair-mindedness, its patriotism; and as an
advertising medium he considered it without parallel or equal.

In token of which he had brought his copy for a full page in that day’s
issue. And would Mr. Robson kindly note that he had taken a box for the
Loyalty Rally on Saturday, being as good an American as anybody, even
if he did bear a German name? And so, exit Mr. Ahrens, stringing out
deprecatory statements about a misunderstanding as he went.

“For Heaven’s sake, Andy, what does it all mean?” The general manager
shook his disheveled head.

“Search me!” he said gravely. “Except for this: It means that The
Guardian wins.”

“Have you reckoned it up?”

“Don’t need to. Outside a few of the Old Prussian Guard in the Deutscher
Club we’ve got everything back that we lost, and a heap more on top of
it.”

“But who’s been doing it? And what have they been doing?” cried the
bewildered Jeremy.

“Not guilty on either count. Somebody’s been impressing our friends,
the enemy, that there’s just one way to be saved, and that the only
A1, guaranteed salvation is via The Guardian. Watch ’em crowd to the
mourners’ seat.”

“What’s the paper been doing since I--”

“Not a thing. Not a blooming thing, Boss, but just sawing wood. This
game was n’t started from inside. I’ll swear to that. Whoever’s been
doing the trick--and it looks to me as if there’d been some expert and
ree-fined blackmail going on--has been keeping clear of us.”

“Judge Dana!” exclaimed Jeremy, struck with a thought.

“Well, I’ve been sort of wondering about him myself,” admitted the
other. “Met him on the street yesterday and he wanted me to call him up
as soon as you got back.”

“All right. Here I am.”

“Ay-ah? You’ve got to show me. You’re not back till Doc Summerfield says
you’re back.”

The door opened and the amazed physiognomy of Buddy Higman appeared.
“The Boss!” he exclaimed. “Holy Moses! I’m a liar.”

“What’s up, Buddy?”

“I’ve been stallin’ off Doc Summerfield and a crazy show-foor
downstairs. They’re waitin’ now. They said would you come peaceable or
be took. I told ’em you’d never been near here.”

“Tell ’em I’ll come peaceably, Buddy,” said the editor wearily. He
turned to Andrew Galpin. “Andy.”

“Ay-ah?”

“You’re sure this is straight? You’re sure you’re not the one that’s
crazy? Or I?”

“Am I sure! Go out the front way, Boss, and see the line waiting.
That’ll convince you. I tell you, unless something busts, we’ll win out
sure.”

Hardly could the editor and owner of The Guardian, led away by Doc
Summerfield in deep disgrace, assimilate the hope of ultimate victory
for his paper and himself. He dared not let himself believe in it yet,
because of the intruding thought of Marcia and of what triumph might
mean to him.




CHAPTER XX

CLICK-CLICK! Click-click! Clickety-click! One hundred pairs of knitting
needles furnished a subdued castanet accompaniment to the voice of a
long, lean lady-droner who stood upon the platform of the Fenchester
Club Auditorium, and read from a typed list. At times she referred to
various issues of The Guardian ranged on a flag-bedecked table. And at
times the clickers paused to make notes in small books wherewith they
had provided themselves for that very purpose. The gathering was the
every morning meeting of the Fenchester Ladies War Reading Club.

Socially it was a comprehensively representative gathering, and
something more. Pretty much every family whose comings and goings
were wont to be entered (by Buddy Higman or some other arbiter of the
elegancies) in The Guardian’s Society Notes had at least one member
present. Sprinkled among the women who made up the active list of
membership were a few associate members, mere males, and in the
presiding officer’s chair sat Mr. Montrose Clark; for, after the regular
proceedings of the day, special business was in order.

Miss Rappelje, the secretary, read from her list: “Nicholas Engel,
grocer. Last year, two columns a week, average. Since The Fair Dealer
announcement, half a column.”

The castanet chorus diminished while the knitters and crocheters entered
a note against Herr Engel’s grocery.

“The Fliess Brewing Company,” continued the reader. “Last year five
columns; now, none.”

“Hurray for Prohibition! Beer’s a German drink anyway,” cried a voice,
and there was a wave of laughter as the clicking resumed.

“The Great Northwestern Stores. Last year three full pages, regularly,
and on special sales as high as five--”

“Pardon me.” A member rose in the center of the house. “Mr. Ahrens sent
a representative to tell me that, in spite of unsettled conditions, they
have contracted to use more space in The Guardian than ever before, and
to ask me to report it here.”

“Let ’em!” commented a determined and ominous voice. “I shall wait and
see.”

From the murmur of assent which greeted this, it was evident that many
would wait and see. So the reading went on, through dairies, laundries,
undertakers, soft drinks, ice dealers, stationers, milliners, garages,
all the lines of industry which bid in print for trade, while the
knitters alternately toiled and made their notes.

Outside, in a small anteroom off the stage, Mr. Jeremy Robson put his
obstinate head down and balked. Ten days’ enforced rest, except for his
one escape, had gone far to restore him to fitness. Now he fended off
Judge Selden Dana and demanded enlightenment.

“Not a step farther till I know what I’m up against,” he declared.

“All you have to do,” returned the lawyer soothingly, “is to trust to me
and do as I tell you.”

“Is that all!” retorted Jeremy, with intent. “Who are these people
outside and what are they doing?”

“They’re your well-earned enemies, and they’re saving the paper for
you.”

“Somebody’s certainly done a job in that direction.-But how? These sound
like mostly women.”

“So they are. As to how they’re pulling your paper through, that’s the
simplest thing in the world. We got up a War Reading Club.”

“Reading Club,” repeated Jeremy. “Perfectly simple! Of course! Andy
Galpin _said_ the whole town had gone crazy since I was laid up. Andy
was right.”

“A great authority once proposed a classic question: ‘Who’s loony now?’
Wait until you hear the rest of this. The club meets here every morning
to do knitting and other war-work while certain extracts from the local
papers are read to them.”

“Good idea,” remarked Jeremy, weary but polite. “Shall I have something
put in the paper about it?”

“My Lord, no!” almost shouted Dana.

Jeremy leaped in his chair. “I wish you would n’t do that sort of
thing,” he protested.

“Still a bit jumpy? Well, I’ll explain in words of one syllable. But
first apply your eye to this peep-hole and tell me what you think of our
membership.”

Doing as he was directed, the editor looked out over what, in earlier
days, he would have identified as a mass-meeting of The Guardian’s
enemies.

“How much purchasing power per year in the local stores would you
suppose they represent?” asked Dana. “A big lot. Quarter of a million,
maybe.”

“Nearer twice that. Now, we’ve got a little committee called the
Committee on Selective Reading. I happen to be chairman of it. Our
committee chooses what advertisements--you get that, Jem?--what
advertisements shall be read each day. That’s our White List. Our
members deal only with merchants whose loyalty is above suspicion. What
would you think of the loyalty of an advertiser who quit The Guardian to
go into The Fair Dealer?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m prejudiced.”

“So is the War Reading Club. It’s my committee’s business to keep ’em
prejudiced--against any merchant who advertises in the wrong place. Now,
our theory is that our members read no advertisements, themselves, and
don’t intend to; certainly not after The Fair Dealer appears. Therefore
they know of the local advertising only as the Committee on Selective
Reading chooses it for them. That’s the _theory_.”

“What’s the fact?”

“The fact is that ninety-nine per cent of those women will see any
merchant in town doubly damned before they spend a cent in his shop
unless he sticks by The Guardian as long as The Guardian sticks by the
country. Do you get it now?”

“Boycott!”

“And blackmail. You should have seen the weak-kneed among the
store-people when we let our programme leak out! You heard part of it
from Galpin.”

“Dana,” said the editor, “if you’d told me this before, you’d have saved
me some mighty tough days.”

“Couldn’t risk it. Can’t you see that we’ve been skirting the ragged
edge of the law? If you’d been in on it, The Fair Dealer could have
charged conspiracy.”

“Then why tell me now?”

“We-ell, we can’t work under cover much longer. Besides, I doubt if
there’s much of any fight left in Embree and his crowd.” He peered out
through the peep-hole. “They’ve turned it into an experience meeting
now,” he remarked. “Then you come on. They’re expecting you. Will you
come peaceably or be escorted?”

“Let me keep out of sight until it’s my turn, anyway,” pleaded Jeremy.

So the lawyer, leading him in, established him behind a wing where he
was half-hidden, and placed himself as a screen. As he settled himself
down, a plump and luxuriously dressed woman at the rear of the hall rose
and said austerely:

“I disapprove The Guardian’s local policy. I consider it unfair and
prejudiced against--er--ah--against our kind of people. But while we
are at war I agree to support it loyally and to deal only with those who
support it.”

“Are my eyes playing tricks?” whispered Jeremy in Dana’s ear. “Or is
that Mrs. Ambrose Galsworth, who tried to have me blackballed at the
Canoe Club?”

“She’s a new member. Wait! There’s worse to come,” chuckled the lawyer.

A little, lean, brisk, twinkling old maid projected herself out of her
seat with a jumping-jack effect.

“I never expected to live to see the day I’d speak for The Guardian
after they printed that awful political attack on my dear uncle,” she
declared. “But the country first! Put down Celia Jenney on your list.
And”--her black bright eyes snapped out sparks--“if there’s a store in
town that don’t want my trade while this war is on, all it has to do
is to take its advertising out of The Guardian and put it into The Fair
Dealer--if that’s its silly name.”

“She spends only about fifteen thousand a year in this town,” observed
Dana aside to Jeremy.

“No wonder the advertisers have been falling over themselves to get back
into the paper!” murmured the editor.

After further informal pledges the chairman called for reports from the
“Missionary Workers.” Up rose Aider-man Crobin--Crooked Crobin, as The
Guardian had dubbed him for years.

“T’ree of my constitchoonts assured me this mahmin’--voluntarily, ye
ondherstand; quite voluntarily--that they are cancelin’ their contract
wid th’ noo paper.”

A tall, pale young woman rose in the center of the house, and as
she moistened her nervous lips a murmur and a rustle swept over the
audience; for this was Mrs. Dennis Robbins, Governor Embree’s sister.

“I bring five pledges of advertisers to stand by The Guardian--and
America,” she said in a low voice; and a quick ripple of sympathetic
applause answered her.

Before it had died away, old Madam Taylor rustled silkily to her feet.

“I’m the tax-dodger,” she cackled. “See The Guardian if you don’t
believe it. But I never dodged a good fight. Two stores that I trade
with cut down their advertising in The Guardian. So I cut down my
trade with them. I cut it down to nothing. Now I understand they feel
differently about the paper,” she concluded malevolently.

Up popped pursy little Mrs. Stockmuller. “Me, I quit Ahrens anyway,”
 she announced, and sat down flushed with the resultant applause of the
multitude and suddenly conscious of latent and hitherto unsuspected
capabilities as a public speaker.

Then little Anne Serviss pledged the support of three hundred University
girls, and following her, the Reverend Mr. Merserole reared himself
impressively into sight and hearing.

“Inter arma, rixæ minores silent,” he proclaimed oracularly, “if my
friend Judge Dana, whom I observe upon the stage, will permit me to
alter a legal proverb to fit the occasion. ‘In time of war, lesser
quarrels are stilled.’ Many of us have had our--er--trials with The
Guardian. But all that is forgotten in the larger cause. I beg to
report, Mr. Chairman, that eighteen members of my church--leading
members, I may add--have signed an agreement to advertise in no local
morning paper during the war.”

“But that’s boycott and against the law, isn’t it?” queried some
cautious member.

Dana jumped to his feet.

“Let ’em take it up!” he cried, his face lighted by a joyous snarl.
“Just let us get ’em into court on it!”

A shout answered him. There was no mistaking the temper of that crowd.
Friends or enemies of The Guardian’s lesser policies, they were shoulder
to shoulder now in the common cause. A conservative old judge was just
resuming his seat, after reporting, when the door was jerked open and
there burst into the aisle Andrew Galpin, livid with the excitement of
great tidings.

“They’ve quit!” he shouted. Then, recalling himself to the proprieties,
he added: “I beg pardon, Mr. Chairman. But they’ve quit!”

Mr. Montrose Clark rose. “Mr. Andrew Galpin, of The Guardian,” he
announced. “Mr. Galpin has, perhaps, matter of interest to present
before this meeting.”

“They’ve quit. That’s all,” said the excited Galpin. His wild and roving
glance fell upon Jeremy Robson who had incautiously moved forward at
sight of his associate, and the last vestige of parliamentary decorum
departed from him. “Do you get that, Boss?” he bellowed. “The Botches
have quit. We win.”

“Who’s quit?”

“What’s a Botch?”

“Platform!”

“Tell us about it.”

“What’s a Botch?” repeated the general manager. “Bausch is a Botch.
Wanser’s a Botch. The Deutscher Club’s a batch of Botches. ‘Smiling
Mart’ Embree’s a Botch, The Fair Dealer would have been a Botch, but
there is n’t going to be any Fair Dealer. They could n’t stand the gaff
you folks put to ’em. Publication day’s indefinitely postponed.”

Hardly had he finished when Jeremy Robson found himself being hustled
by Judge Dana and the chairman, who had possessed themselves of an arm
apiece, to the front of the platform. The house rose to him in a burst
of acclaim. He looked out, with nerves aquiver, across that waiting
audience of one-time enemies, opponents bitter and implacable, bitterly
and implacably fought in many an unforgotten campaign; now his allies,
rallying to a service greater than all past hatreds, higher than all
past loyalties.

Judge Dana’s words echoed back to him: “In the same cause--with the last
drop of blood--to the finish!” What terms could he find wherein to speak
to these, his enemies of old, looking up at him with such befriending
eyes?

Montrose Clark had delivered himself of a hurried and unheeded
introduction, and now Jeremy stood, with shaking knees, gazing down at
them. Opportunely and suddenly the parable of Nick Milliken came into
his mind.

“My friends,” he said unsteadily, “I can’t make you a speech. There are
n’t thanks made for this sort of thing. But I can tell you the parable
of Milliken. You know Milliken, the Socialist--one of us. He was talking
to a bunch that were ripe for a strike, arguing against it because it
would hinder one little corner of our war. This is what he told them:
‘All my life,’ he said, ‘I’ve been fighting Wall Street and the firm of
J. P. Morgan & Company. I’m against everything they represent. I expect
to go on fighting them the rest of my life. But if I were walking down
the street with Mr. Morgan and we met a mad wolf in the road I’d say to
him: “Pierpont, let’s get together and kill that wolf. Our little scrap
can wait.” That’s what Milliken told them, my friends. That’s all I
can say to you now. We’ve had our differences, you and I. We’ll have
them again. They seemed big and bitter at the time. How little they
seem now! For now we’re facing the mad wolf of Germany right here in
Centralia. He’s in the heart of our State. “Let’s get him out! Our little
scrap can wait!”’”

They rose to him again.

“But, God bless your dear hearts,” cried young Jeremy Robson with
shining eyes and outstretched hands, “how can we ever fight each other
after this!”

Up in a far corner of the gallery a pair of strong, little, sun-tanned,
eager, tremulous hands went forth involuntarily as if to meet Jeremy’s,
unseen.

*****

While that very unliterary and decidedly militant organization, the
Fenchester War Reading Club, was pouring forward to overwhelm the editor
of The Guardian, there gathered in the little side room a hasty and
earnest conference of three. Andrew Galpin and Montrose Clark having
left it, the lone survivor, Judge Selden Dana, remained to catch Jeremy
as he came out.

“Jem,” he said, “you’ve won.”

“Thanks to you people!”

“Thanks to a good fight. Galpin tells me The Fair Dealer backers are
through. We’ve scared the local advertisers out of their contracts and
the paper can’t hold ’em because of the change of publication date.
Verrall made a fatal break when he put a date in that contract. They’re
through. But The Fair Dealer is going on.”

“No! Who’s going to back it?”

“Montrose Clark. He’s going to take it over.”

“For his corporation campaign. I see. Then this means another fight of
another kind on my hands.”

“He’s going to use it to beat out Martin Embree with his own candidate.”

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “You know The Guardian can’t and won’t stand for
you fellows’ kind of candidate.”

“You’ll stand for this one.”

“Who is it?”

“Jeremy Robson.”

“Jer--Andy was right, _sure!_” gasped the other. “The town has gone
crazy and I’ve gone with it.”

“On a platform of Centralia for the War,” continued the other. “Now put
your lower jaw back on its hinges and I’ll explain how this is n’t as
crazy from our point of view as you’d think. You’ll be elected--for
we’ll lick ‘Smiling Mart’--only for the unfinished term. The war will
last that long, and while the war lasts internal polides don’t matter.
After the war--why, we’ll have a newspaper of our own to lick you with
when you come up for reelection.”

“I’ll give you a good run both ways,” promised Jeremy. And the two men
soberly shook hands upon it.

“What a scheme; the woman’s boycott!” said Jeremy presently. “I might
have known that was your fine Italian hand.”

“It was n’t.”

“No? Who did work it out?”

“A much cleverer politician than I ever thought of being.”

“There ain’t no sich animule,” denied Jeremy. “Show it to me.”

“I have been sitting at the feet of Wisdom, Wile, and Woman. Her other
name,” said Judge Dana, “is Marcia Ames. And my professional advice to
you is to be on your way.”




CHAPTER XXI


                   “In dreams she grows not older

                   The lands of Dream among--”


THE deep, soft thrill of the contralto voice floated through the warm
air on invisible wings. The listener, coming softly up the pathway of
the old garden, paused to hearken, to drink it in, with the fragrance
of the late roses, the wine of the sun-drenched air, the peace of the
shaded ways, all the other lovelinesses of a world suddenly blessed to
his soul.

The voice faltered and sank, at the sound of his foot upon the steps.
The singer’s hands strayed like suddenly affrighted things among the
keys of the piano. She stood to face him as he entered, and of all the
tremulous, tender beauty of her, only her eyes meeting and merging with
his, were unwavering.

“Jem!” she said, very low.

“Marcia!”

She lifted her arms as he crossed swiftly to her, and clung to him,
and gave him her lips in glad and complete surrender, while he held her
close and murmured to her the words that he had been so hungry to speak,
she so hungry to hear.

“Jem,” she whispered presently, “you cannot give me up now, Jem.”

“I never did, dear love,” he said.

                   “Though all the world wax colder,

                   Though all the songs be sung.

                        In dreams doth he--”

“Ah, but you did. You tried. How could you even try!”

“I never did. Not really. Not for a moment. Not even when I thought you
had married some one else.”

She moved in his arms to hide her eyes against his face.

“You must have known that I never could,” she murmured.

“Don’t you see,” he pursued eagerly, “that if I had really given you up,
I should have given up the paper, the fight, everything? Don’t you see
that, love?”

“Yes; that is true,” she assented sweetly. “That must be true. Though
perhaps you did not know it.... Ah, Jem, but I have wearied for you!”

“When’s the very earliest you can marry me, dearest?” he asked.

She looked up at him with her level and fearless eyes. “Any time, Jem.”

“I’m asking a lot of you,” he said, his eager face clouding for the
moment. “It is n’t all plain sailing yet; and there won’t be so much to
live on even here. If we go to Washington you’ll find it doubly hard,
I’m afraid.”

“But I have my own money, Jem. And what is this about Washington?”

“Oh!” said he casually; “they want to nominate me for the Senate,
against Mart Embree.”

“Jem! You will take it?”

“If my liege lady approves.”

“Of course she approves. It is wonderful. How could you keep it to
yourself! Why did you not tell me the instant you came?”

“Well, you see, I was intent on other matters,” said Jem, looking down
into the flushed and adorable face, which flushed the more adorably at
his words. He bent to her. “Dearest of my heart,” he said passionately,
“what does it all matter in comparison with you!”

*****

Stepping gloriously from rose-tipped cloud to rose-tipped cloud as
youth may do when winged with happiness and love, Jeremy, on his way
office-ward, presently found himself at the Inter-Urban terminal being
accosted by a man who said: “If you are deaf, I can make signs.”

“I beg your pardon,” apologized Jeremy hastily. “Were you speaking to
me?”

“Only three times,” said the stranger. “So far,” he added.

Thus recalled from his castle-building the editor contemplated his
interceptor. The man was a stranger in town. He carried a small,
nondescript bag. He looked like a country minister on a week-day, or a
prosperous plumber off the job, or a middle-aged clerk on an errand, or
any one of a hundred other everyday individuals. In fact he was in face,
figure, dress, and manner, the most commonplace, humdrum, unremarkable,
completely average individual that Jeremy had ever encountered. He might
have posed as the composite photograph of a convention of ten thousand
Average Citizens.

“I was asking you: do you know this city,” he was saying patiently.

Now Jeremy possessed a singularly retentive visual memory. This memory
had suddenly started working with a jar. “I do,” he said. “Do I know
you?”

“You do not,” said the man.

“I’m not so sure,” retorted Jeremy. “I seem to remember a talk at the
Owl’s Nest in Philadelphia, six years ago or so, by a distinguished
globe-trotter and war correspondent. Now if you had n’t told me that I
did not know you, I would have said--”

“You would have thought,” corrected the stranger, without the flicker of
an eyelid.

“I would have thought you were that lecturer.”

“Likenesses are deceptive,” observed the other.

“And, in spite of your new mustache, remembering a meeting at the Lion
d’Or just off the Place Clichy a year later, I would have said--”

“You would have thought,” interpolated the other, imperturbably.

“I would have thought that you were still the same, and I would
have said--that is, I would have thought that your name was Jerome
Tillinghast.”

“But you would n’t say it.”

“Not on any account, if there is good reason against it in the opinion
of Jerome Tillinghast--who, by the way, did n’t have that furrow over
his temple when I knew him.”

“Shrapnel,” explained the other. “Russian campaign. Got me in the leg,
too. So they packed me home, and Uncle Sam set me to work. My official
name is James Tilley. And yours?”

Jeremy explained himself.

“The Guardian, eh? You’re the last man in town I’d have looked up. But
now that I’ve met you, I’ll just mention that Washington thinks pretty
well of The Guardian. Keep it up, my boy. And now, where would I be
likely to find a bold and dashing patriot, by name, Emil Bausch?”

Jeremy gave the directions. James Tilley thanked him. “Nobody ever
recognizes me,” he observed, “or notices me, or remembers me. I’m such a
common article. That’s all that makes me valuable. So kindly forget all
this. And good-bye.”

Five minutes later he was sitting in Emil Bausch’s private office
explaining to that perturbed gentleman certain supposedly very private
matters in connection with a chemical project in one phase of which
Bausch had acted for a certain otherwise unidentified “Mr. Stern.”
 Bausch was loftily contemptuous, though nervous.

“The other details,” said the caller pleasantly, “are entered in Ledger
M, under the cipher of X-32, formerly kept at 60 Wall Street.”

Bausch gulped twice and said he had never heard of it.

“Fortunate for you,” returned the other. “Take my advice and don’t hear
of it. Don’t have any part in it. Don’t do business with people who
have. Trouble lies that way.”

Thereafter Mr. Bausch repaired to the Deutscher Club where he had
several more beers than was his wont, and subsequently delivered himself
of touching appreciations of free speech and the privileges of American
citizenship. He wound up, after dinner, by declaring to a puzzled
assemblage that he knew his rights and was n’t afraid of anybody, even
if he did come from Washington and wear a tin shield.

Meantime a supremely ordinary appearing person contrived to get himself
admitted to the President’s room of the Fenchester Trust Company, and
introduced himself to Robert Wanser, who found his bearing, mild though
it was, distinctly antipathetic. In a voice so quiet as to give the
effect of being meek, the intruder ventured to advise Mr. Wanser to shun
the Deutscher Club.

“Go to the devil!” retorted Mr. Wanser, whose nerves had been recently
frazzled by local as well as national events.

“I’m giving you the opposite advice,” returned the other equably. “Keep
away from the Deutscher Club.”

“Save your advice for those who want it. Who are you, anyway?”

“James Tilley, at your service. Sent here from Washington to help you
avoid trouble.”

The word “Washington” fell chill upon the banker’s ear. Nevertheless, he
blustered “The Deutscher Club is my club. The Government cannot tell a
private citizen to keep away from a private club.”

“But a well-wisher--such as myself--may suggest that he find his
amusements elsewhere.”

“Well-wisher! A(c)h! Spy. Is this a free country? In Germany one would
not be so oppressed.”

“This is not Germany. Bear that in mind. The Deutscher Club _is_--or
something like it.”

“But--”

“And, by the way, tell your wife--Bertha Wanser is your wife, isn’t she?
Exactly! She talks too much. Propaganda. Tell her to--”

“Vimmen, too!” snarled the other. “You can’t even keep your hands off
vimmen. Tell her yourself.”

James Tilley sighed. “I will,” he said, and departed, leaving an
irritant, disconcerting and healthily prudent impress upon the mind of
the grandson of ’48.

As for Mrs. Wanser, she was profoundly displeased with the face,
apparel, carriage, and particularly the manner of her unknown caller,
which was abrupt and brusque.

“You go to the motion pictures, madam,” he stated.

“Yes,” she said, wondering.

“On the 11th you were at the Gayety. A Four-Minute-Man spoke. You
protested to the management.”

“I did. I told the manager he’d lose my custom if they let such nonsense
go on.”

“The speaker was Professor Brender, of the University--”

“A German,” she broke in. “And he gets up in public and makes shame of
Germany.”

“As a Four-Minute-Man he speaks with the authority of the Government. On
the 14th you protested to the Orpheum.”

“You been spying on me,” said the lady, wrathfully.

“Certainly. You’re a suspicious person. Take my advice. Stop talking, or
if you must talk, talk like an American. Propaganda is a dangerous game.
Go to those two movie managers and withdraw--”

“I won’t,” she declared, pale with fury.

“I think you will. Ask your husband. And do as he tells you. He’ll tell
you just what I have--if he’s wise.”

For all his modest disavowals of being able to make an impression upon
people, there were now at least three individuals in Fenchester who
would hold in tenacious and painful memory to the last day of their
lives the smallest detail of James Tilley’s unremarkable personality.
He now proceeded to enlarge the list. Whether by chance or by design,
he encountered Pastor Klink, who was doing some quiet research work in
connection with back files of the newspapers, in the City Library, and
Pastor Klink took the next train for home and a reflective silence. He
met with the Reverend Theo Gunst and that fervid theologian retired to
draft an editorial for the leading German religious weekly, reeking with
protestations of loyalty, which almost tore his agonized heart out by
its Teutonic roots. He ran across Gordon Fliess and earnestly counseled
him against the strain of frequent railway journeys between Bellair
and Fenchester. On the other hand, and as indicating a certain amiable
flexibility of view on his part, he dropped in upon A. M. Wymett to
extol the broadening influence of travel. A. M. Wymett traveled.

He called upon Vogt and Niebuhr, and Henry Dolge, the educational
expert, leaving behind him devastated areas of alarm, caution, and at
least temporary silence.

Within two days after his arrival, though he had said no word nor even
given any hint upon either point, the Deutscher Club burst into a riot
of American flags, and Martin Embree made a speech so full of patriotic
pathos that it brought tears to the eyes of his hearers, particularly
the Germans.

Bausch, and Niebuhr, and Dolge, and a few others of the old school,
however, took to meeting in a respectable saloon kept by one Muller down
in “the Ward.” To them came Gordon Fliess, and influential men from
the Northern Tier, for conference. What passed there was asserted to be
perfectly loyal, and supposed to be quite private....

But within a fortnight, James Tilley, more unobtrusive than ever,
stepped off another Inter-Urban trolley, and stayed over one train.
Thence he went to Bellair, and so passes into his chosen obscurity. He
gave no advice this time. Not, at least, to Bausch, or Dolge, Niebuhr,
or the respectable saloon-keeper, Muller; neither to Gordon Fliess. But
the respectable saloon unostentatiously ceased to exist. And its more
than respectable patrons named above quietly vanished, and the places
that had known them knew them no more. Observing which, the more
cautious Robert Wanser trembled, and congratulated himself.

Deutschtum, hitherto hardly bent, was now broken in the State of
Centralia.




CHAPTER XXII

PATRIOTISM had waxed and politics waned with the ebbing of the year
1917, in Centralia. Through the murk and fume of alien treachery, enemy
propaganda, and the reckless self-seeking of petty partisanship had
burst a clear, high, consuming flame of Americanism. Lesser matters were
forgotten in the maintenance of that beacon-fire. Men of all types of
political belief, of all classes, of all economic and social creeds, had
abandoned their private feuds and bitternesses in the fervor against the
common enemy. To them had rallied the finer and more courageous element
of the German-Americans, some impulsively from emotion and sentiment
like Stock-muller and Blasius, others, in the pain and travail of old
ties broken and from the profound conviction of loyalty and right, like
Professor Brender. Centralia, thirty years before marked by Deutschtum
to be the Little Germany of the New World, was slowly, doggedly
establishing its birthright of Americanism.

Poison still lurked in its system. There were whisperings in dark
corners. The German-language press still gave heart-service to the
Kaiser’s cause in hint and suggestion and innuendo, while giving
lip-service to the cause of the United States in artificial and
machine-made editorials. The German pulpit, preaching an ineradicable
Germanism by the very use of the German tongue, was lack-loyal where it
dared not be disloyal. Over many a Verein and Bund and Gesellschaft the
Stars and Stripes waved above seething revolt of spirit. Workers in all
patriotic causes felt the dead-weight of a sullen, unworded, untraceable
opposition clogging their efforts. But all this was negative.
Deutschtum, a few short months before so arrogant and confident of its
power over Centralia, was on its defense. More; it was in hiding. No
other one force had done so much to drive it thither as that once yellow
mongrel of journalism, The Fenchester Guardian.

The Guardian’s den was brightly lighted on this December evening of
1917. It was brightly lighted on most evenings. Yet Doc Summerfield,
aforetime of a pessimistic view regarding the effect of night-labor upon
Jeremy Robson, was obliged to admit that he showed a steady improvement
in spite of apparent overwork. Perhaps this was because he had provided
himself with a highly valued assistant. The assistant was seated
opposite the chief, reading proof on an editorial, when the door opened,
and in stalked Andrew Galpin, traveling-bag in hand.

“Hello, Bosses!” he said.

“Hello, Andy,” said his chief; and “Welcome back, Andy,” said the
assistant getting up to perch upon the arm of the chief editorial chair,
thus leaving a seat for the general manager, who took it with a nod.

“I saw Cassius Kimball,” he stated. “He’s just back from Washington.”

“Any new’s?” asked Jeremy.

“We’ve located Emil Bausch. But not for publication.”

“Where is he?”

“Behind two row’s of barbed wire, one of ’em charged with electricity,
in a pleasant Southern camp. He’s a member of the Millionaires’ Club,
there. They caught him on that chemical deal. Supposed to be wholesale
drugs; really high explosives.”

“Any other of our extinguished local lights heard from?”

“Muller, the saloon-keeper, is down there, too. But not in the
Millionaires’ Club. He’s gardening. One dollar per diem. Martin Dolge is
in Mexico.”

“What about Gunst and Klink and the church outfit?”

“They’ve promised to be good. Three of their religious weeklies are
scheduled to quit. Gordon Fliess has dropped his financial support
of the German-American dailies. We’re going to go stale for lack of
opposition’ if this keeps on,” prophesied Andy sadly.

“Cassius did n’t run across Mart Embree down there, did he?” queried
Jeremy.

“Ay-ah. He did. Says ‘Smiling Mart’ was running around like a little,
worried dog, wagging his tail anxiously and trying to make his peace.”

“Peace is still Governor Embree’s specialty, then?” put in the
assistant, from her perch.

“Why, I guess it always will be, so long as there’s a German vote in
Centralia,” returned the general manager. “But what does ‘Smiling Mart’
amount to, now? We’ve got the whole bunch licked to a frazzle, and
licked for keeps.”

“Do you think so. So easily?”

Andy Galpin looked intently at Mrs. Jeremy Robson. “Maybe I’m wrong,” he
said meekly. “You think it is n’t over?”

The little, tawny head was shaken emphatically.

“I think that we shall have it all to fight again,” she said, in her
unchanged, precise, and subtly caressing manner of speech.

“When?” The chief and the general manager challenged her with one voice.

“When Germany’s peace offer is made. Then you will see Governor Embree
and all that is left of Germany here making their fight for a peace
which will be worse than war. That is why I will not listen to Jem’s
giving up the paper.”

“What do you think of that, Andy?” asked Jem.

The general manager smiled his slow, homely, friendly smile at Marcia
Robson. “I think what I’ve thought since the first minute I set eyes
on her,” he said: “that she’s a wise guy. Boss, we haven’t won this war
over here until we’ve won this war over there, and don’t you forget it!
By the way, there’s quite a little talk in Washington, Kimball tells me,
about the new Senator-elect from Centralia.”

“I blush, modestly and prettily,” retorted Jem. “Or--Marcia, you do it
for me. I’d rather stay here and run the old Guardian.”

“I’d rather have you,” returned Andy, with rueful emphasis.

“We shall be back for the fight that is coming,” promised Marcia.

Galpin’s eyes wandered slowly about the room and returned upon Marcia.
“It gives me the shivers,” he said, “to think how near we were to losing
out on the whole fight when Buddy Higman went and got you. I’d like to
have heard Buddy’s argument.”

“It was effective,” laughed Marcia. “Buddy was honestly convinced that
without The Guardian to guide it, the Nation would go to immediate
destruction.”

“Buddy’s little plan turned out well for him,” observed Jem. “Marcia
is sending him to Old Central in the fall. Sort of a fairy godmother,
aren’t you?” he added, looking up at his wife. “Pull the paper through
with one hand, save us all, and make a man of Buddy with the other.”

“Do not give me too much credit,” said Marcia, more gravely. “It was
Andy who really held you here when you wished to go into the army.”

“Oh, well, I had my stake in the paper, too,” disclaimed the general
manager, picking up his valise and hat. “Good-night, Bosses,” he added.
“Don’t overwork and spoil your beauty, you two.”

“Marcia,” said Jem, after their aide had gone. “That night when you
came back--don’t go away while I’m talking seriously, please!--would you
really have married me, right away, then and there?”

“Certainly, I would. I meant to. You were very cruel. You spoiled my
plans.”

He regarded her with suspicion. Was there a note of raillery in the
sweet, even voice?

“What plans?”

“Why, to marry you then.”

“And then what?”

“To put my money into the paper and keep you from selling it, of
course.’

“But if I would n’t have taken it? And I would n’t, you know.”

“That would not have made the slightest difference,” she said calmly.
“You could not have sold the paper, in any case, if you had married me
when--when I proposed to you.”

“Could n’t I! I’d have had to, if matters had gone on as they were
going.”

“No. For you could not have sold the paper without the plant, and the
plant being real estate, could not be transferred without the wife’s
consent.”

“So it couldn’t! You wretched little plotter! Who put you up to that?”

“I consulted a lawyer,” she replied demurely. “On a hypothetical case.”

“I’m jealous,” declared Jem. “You were trying to marry me for my
property and not for my winning self. Was that the only reason?”

Her face changed adorably as she bent over him. “What do you think?” she
said.

“But I wanted to have--what is it Andy called it?--a stake in the paper,
too,” she continued, after a moment. “You have never let me. Do you
think that is fair?”

“It’s the only fair way. We’re not out of the woods yet, with The
Guardian. Newspaper property is going to be mighty uncertain before this
war is over, and I don’t want you involved in it. The Guardian has taken
you in, little wife, but it won’t take your money.”

“Not even if you should need it? To save the paper?”

“Not even then.”

“Jem, I--I want a--a stake in the paper.”

“Why, Marcia! What is it, dearest? You’re not crying, are you?”

“No, I _think_ not. If I am, it is for happiness, Jem. I--I have a--a
special stake now in the paper. I want to keep The Guardian to hand it
down to--to--”

“Marcia!” He turned in the circle of her arms, but for once the frank
eyes were hidden from him.

“--to our son,” said the soft voice with a little catch in it. “I am
sure it will be a son, Jem. If we name him Jeremy Andrew Robson”--the
voice was muffled now against Jem’s cheek--“he will be almost The
Guardian’s child--next to being ours, Jem.”

Jem drew a long, deep breath of happiness. “There’ll always be a good
fight for a hundred per cent American paper like The Guardian to get
into. That’s the real best of the business, I guess.” He bent over the
little, proud, bowed head. “I hope he’ll be as good an American as his
mother,” he said.


THE END