“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 didn’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.
38
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’, anymore. 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 today.”
“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 wouldn’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 anyone 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 anyone 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 shouldn’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 hadn’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 couldn’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.
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