Common Cause: A Novel of the War in America

By Samuel Hopkins Adams

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• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Sep 4, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547218890

Book preview

Samuel Hopkins Adams

Common Cause

A Novel of the War in America

EAN 8596547218890

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

PART I

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

END OF PART I

PART II

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

END OF PART II

PART III

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

THE END

PART I

Table of Contents

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CHAPTER I

Table of Contents

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

Table of Contents

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!’