“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 today’s paper.”
What the Germans did to Jeremy Robson was, in the terse slang of the day, a plenty. The German press1, religious and lay, attacked The Guardian as an exponent of narrow and blighting Know-Nothingism. One or two small German organizations passed high-sounding resolutions of reprehension. There was a flood of letter 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 Cherman-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 worthwhile?” 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 give it a hasty glance. He accepted it on the Honorable Martin Embree’s word; and as he did so 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 judgement 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 Lauren’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.
19
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 didn’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 today.”
“Today—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 haven’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 assets 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 didn’t fight it. I let up on it.”
“You l
et up on it 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, didn’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 don’t put 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 the 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 Drover’s Bank went the owner of the Fenchester 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.”
“Didn’t I indicate to you that his loyal German heart was sore?”
“Why wasn’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 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 amendable 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 as either a direction, threat, or declaration of intent, and partook of the nature of all three.
20
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 hierophantic 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 permane
nt 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. ’T ain’t letters at all. They’re fer noospapers.”
“Are they?” said his chief, walking out into the wintry air with him. “I didn’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 didn’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.
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