A**T,Ut 
 
 SHE WAS STANDING AT THE TOP OF THE FIVE 
 VERANDA STEPS (page 36) 
 
COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "Hovel of the War 
 in ^America 
 
 BV 
 
 SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 1919 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 :3\n: \ 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 SHE WAS STANDING AT THE TOP OF THE FIVE VE 
 RANDA STEPS Frontispiece 
 
 " I WILL RAISE THE UNIVERSITY AND HANG YOU TO 
 
 THE HIGHEST TREE ON THE CAMPUS "... 34-O 
 
 Drawn by Arthur William Brown 
 
COMMON CAUSE 
 PART I 
 
COMMON CAUSE 
 
 A NOVEL OF THE WAR IN AMERICA 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 DEUTSCHLAND, Deutschland uber alles!" Three 
 thousand voices blended and swelled in the power 
 ful harmony. The walls of the Fenchester Auditorium 
 trembled to it. The banners, with their German mottoes 
 of welcome, swayed to the rhythm. 
 
 "Uber alles in der Welt!" 
 
 The thundering descent of the line with its superb reso 
 nances was as martial as a cavalry charge. Three thou 
 sand flushed, perspiring, commonplace faces above re 
 spectable 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, 
 
4 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 Rob- 
 son 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 Guard 
 ian, 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, Presi 
 dent 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 Com 
 pany; 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 for 
 eign lands. 
 
 At the close of the musical exaltation of Germany 
 
COMMON CAUSE 5 
 
 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 care 
 fully 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 
 
6 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 German. The next speaker, Pastor Klink, rose and glori 
 fied 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 in 
 vented 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 chair 
 man 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 al 
 legiance, it must be admitted that they are of equable 
 spirit. Nobody openly resented the playing of the na 
 tional anthem. A glance of disapproval passed between 
 the professorial envoy from Germany and Pastor Klink, 
 and some of the others on the stage frowned momenta 
 rily. But their habitual tolerant good nature at once re 
 asserted 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 re 
 porters 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 fig 
 ure seemed to be making an effort at dissuasion. It was 
 
COMMON CAUSE 7 
 
 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 takeoff 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, awk 
 ward, solid, while the chosen voice of the* Nation s pa 
 triotism 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. "Noth 
 ing 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. 
 
8 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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," ob 
 served 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 di 
 rected 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, re 
 turned 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 9 
 
 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 im 
 pressed upon his hearers the holy purpose of Deutschtum. 
 German ties must be maintained ; German habits and cus 
 toms of life and above all the German speech must be 
 piously fostered at whatever distance from the Father 
 land, to the end that, in the inevitable day when Ger 
 many 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 re 
 porter for The Record sat sketching the outlines of his 
 word-picture of the stripling in the gallery and the mag 
 nate in the box, standing to honor their country s an 
 them, 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 over 
 took them. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Laurens. My name is Rob- 
 son. I m a reporter for The Record. Could I have a word 
 with you?" 
 
io COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 inscruta 
 ble lights and depths beneath. For the rest, his hasty im 
 pression 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 en 
 dearing, 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE n 
 
 14 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 go 
 ing 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 twink 
 ling, "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." 
 
12 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 fiber alles. 
 From Americans ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the reporter. "And good ones." 
 
 " I should think they would better be called good Ger 
 mans. 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 13 
 
 "Verboten. Lse-majeste. Anti-imperialismus. Some 
 thing 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 be 
 come 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 pat 
 ronizing 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. May 
 be 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 be 
 fore 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 
 
14 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 Across the window was stretched a brand-new Ameri 
 can 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 Feder 
 ates passed near them, and paused. 
 
 "That is the man who refused to decorate with our col 
 ors," 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 un 
 der 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 15 
 
 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 say 
 ing, 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 feel 
 ing 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 sun 
 dry 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 irre 
 concilable foreign culture in the carelessly hospitable land 
 which they had adopted as their own. Over streets, resi 
 dences, 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 
 
16 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 af 
 fectionately 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 monosylla 
 ble had been simultaneously imprinted upon his journal 
 istic 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 laugh 
 ter 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 gen 
 tleman still available for the purpose, young Jeremy 
 Robson had straightway bearded him in his lair, demanded 
 an explanation, denounced him as a soggy-souled Philis- 
 
18 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 tine, 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 him 
 self. 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 mat 
 ter 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 morn 
 ing. The Guardian man accosted him: 
 
 " Did n t see your Star-Spangled 1 story, Bo." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What became of it?" 
 
 " Killed. What became of yours? " 
 
 " Did n tr 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 Rob- 
 son, 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 19 
 
 "Well, I didn 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. "Ay 
 ah. 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, 
 
20 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 and blue, or get your eyesight overcrowded with photo 
 graphs of the American eagle? Did you mistake the pic 
 ture 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 r 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 of 
 fered. 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 21 
 
 " Give me a job, then," said the other good-humoredly, 
 11 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 11 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 out 
 skirts 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 11 print that all right. Ay-ah," he added re 
 flectively. "And there ll be no spiking of the story by 
 Mart Embree, either." 
 
22 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 V 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 master 
 piece. 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." 
 * "Apussyfooter, 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? " 
 
COMMON CAUSE 23 
 
 " 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 re 
 porter. 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 shrewd 
 ness, in the mouth and chin. A thoroughly attractive 
 face, and more than that, a winning as well as an impres- 
 
24 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 sive 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, mo 
 tioned 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." Em* 
 bree 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 val 
 orous 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 25 
 
 pleasant and patriotic incident. But Felder is a blunder 
 head. He stopped the music. I would have got the people 
 up, myself, in another two seconds." 
 
 "Senator, you understand the Germans," said the re 
 porter, 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 to. ok 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 sec 
 ond time over. 
 
 "Well? " he inquired, as Embree raised his head. 
 
 The Senator s fine smile enveloped him. "Frankly, it 
 wouldn 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." 
 
26 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 4 "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 imper 
 ishable 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 27 
 
 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 con 
 fiding 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 pres 
 ently. 
 
 "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 11 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 inter 
 fere 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 thror.gh 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 
 
28 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 journal 
 ism." 
 
 "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 intercollegi 
 ate football mix-up. You were editing The Bell, I be 
 lieve." 
 
 "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 fore 
 head. "I m fighting for a principle here." 
 
 "Political?" said Jeremy Robson. 
 
 "Do politics interest you?" 
 
 "They make me sick," returned the reporter vigor 
 ously. 
 
 "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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 29 
 
 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 hum 
 ble 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. 
 
30 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 sup 
 posed to be representative of its public. Ensign s news 
 paper 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 some 
 thing and stick to your belief instead of singing what 
 ever tune you re paid or ordered to sing." Again, one 
 of his frequent pauses. "Like The Record and The 
 Guardian." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 31 
 
 "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 Wy- 
 mett, the editor?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "He s a crook." 
 
 "That s a short and ugly word, Senator." 
 
 "Wymett s a short and ugly animile. Short on pay 
 ment 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 Corpora 
 tion?" 
 
 " 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 in 
 terests; Montrose Clark representing the traction crowd, 
 
32 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 Magnus Laurens representing the water-power grabbers, 
 Robert Wanser representing the banks, Sam Corliess 
 representing the lake shipping, Selden Dana represent 
 ing 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 al 
 most 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 33 
 
 "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? Poli 
 ticians 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 11 admit my object is largely self 
 ish. I m looking everywhere for the man who can even 
 tually make a newspaper for the public. It won t come to 
 morrow, or next day. But it 11 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 11 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 ve 
 randa. 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 explanation- 
 less, 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 be 
 gan to lag and waver. Yet an undue hesitancy of spirit 
 had never been reckonable as among young Mr. Rob- 
 son 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 35 
 
 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 con 
 flicting muscular intentions and inhibitions. He turned 
 into Nicklin Avenue, leading downtown to his proper 
 occupation, and almost immediately executed a right 
 about-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 rec 
 ognized and resented the invalidity of the poet s praise 
 of those supposedly useful members: 
 
 " I only have to steer em, and 
 They ride me every wheres." 
 
 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 inten 
 tion 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 ! 
 
36 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "Get out!" commanded Jeremy Robson, in a tone 
 which left no room for doubt. 
 
 The small boy and his dog retired hastily. Their in 
 tended 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 un 
 wavering 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 tem 
 ples 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 respecta 
 bly 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 37 
 
 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. Evi 
 dently 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." 
 
38 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 11 show it to you some day." 
 
 She nodded, without asking him how or where. Mar- 
 cia Ames was one of those individuals who wait unques- 
 tioningly and accept generously. "It is quite a coinci 
 dence 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 re- 
 tracer 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 con 
 venience. Once for all Jeremy Robson knew that what 
 ever might be between them in future, there would at 
 least be truth. And with a sharp pang, felt the forebod 
 ing 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 39 
 
 "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 stud 
 ied 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 de 
 cided, 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 endur 
 ance 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 
 
40 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 among the more casual and careless garb of the Middle 
 West. 
 
 "I really had not given it much thought," she an 
 swered, 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 accus 
 tom 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 can 
 not remain indefinitely leaning over a gate in conversa 
 tion, 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 41 
 
 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 11 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 11 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." 
 
42 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 for 
 get 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 re 
 torted, "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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 43 
 
 "Lo, MissMarcy!" 
 
 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 adora 
 tion 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 w r as 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. 
 
44 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 The narrator rubbed one foot over the other and con 
 sidered. "Sweat," he stated conscientiously. "Look at 
 his collar." 
 
 Mr. Robson s involuntary hand and Miss Ames invol 
 untary gaze met upon the article of apparel indicated. It 
 melted under the double pressure. 
 
 "Walked back up to Montgomery Street," continued 
 the conscientious chronicler enjoyably. "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, en 
 lightened. "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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 45 
 
 14 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 11 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 in 
 formal 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 in 
 nate 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. 
 " Per the young lady at Miss Pritchard s? Right 
 here." He held them up to his own admiration. "Afoot 
 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 y 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 47 
 
 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 to 
 gether 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 11 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. Charao 
 
48 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 ter 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, bet 
 ter 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 van 
 ity 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 11 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 49 
 
 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 Sur 
 geon, 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," ex 
 plained Wade. 
 
50 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 51 
 
 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?" coun 
 tered the other. 
 
 Jeremy s face changed; his weight shifted slightly 
 upon his feet. Not so slightly but that the pedal diag 
 nostician 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 Sur 
 geon. 
 
 "Mind you," continued the Socialist, pursuing his fa 
 vorite path of self -explication ; "I would n t ha printed 
 your story, either. It was a fool story. Ain t the Ger 
 mans 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 civ 
 ilized, 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 
 
52 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 Doctor stoutly. "I don t reckon none of us is going to 
 fight in another led by Germans and crazy folks." 
 
 "You 11 come around," laughed Milliken. "You 11 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 11 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 11 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 53 
 
 They boil over on him and out I go, with the steam. Don t 
 you mind me, either, young feller. You 11 see I m right, 
 one day. We re all bound upon the Wheel of Things, as 
 the old Lammy said to Kim. Sup-prised, 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. 
 j> Eli Wade looked after Milliken with a frown. "Them 
 shoes of his have got a gallows gait," he declared. "Law 
 less 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 typog 
 raphy 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 gen 
 tleman," he added. "Not in the way of trade. Come in 
 an talk with the old man. One of you newspaper gentle 
 men drops in for a chat, often. Mr. Galpin of The Guard 
 ian. You ll know him, I guess?" 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "Them are his spare shoes, yonder. Rough, ordinary, 
 
54 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 gai 
 ters. 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 55 
 
 shoes. Got to be jest so. Spick an span. They say Mont- 
 rose 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 \Vade; 
 "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 bar 
 rier 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," repre 
 hended 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 con 
 quering glory of the sun; the breeze s kiss and the wel 
 come 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 57 
 
 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," ob 
 served 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 con 
 versation 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 es 
 tablishment 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 play 
 ing 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 pain 
 ful total. 
 
 "Fifty- twos will never land you anywhere," was the 
 conclusion which he derived from the addition. 
 
58 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "What is to be done?" she asked in her precise Eng 
 lish. "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 /silent, as in Hades. " 
 
 " I do not think that a very funny joke," she said scorn 
 fully. 
 
 "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-look 
 ing 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 11 help do the 
 trick." 
 
 "What were you doing in Philadelphia?" inquired the 
 girl irrelevantly. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 59 
 
 "Not golfing," he returned. "So, if you don t mind, 
 we 11 postpone that. This is a golf lesson, and right here 
 the serious business of the day begins. The first consider 
 ation 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 star- 
 gazer, 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 be 
 hind his pupil s ball as almost to touch its lower arc. " Be 
 hold 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 intent- 
 
60 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 ness. 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 de 
 mure 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 la- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 61 
 
 men table foozle, whereupon Jeremy gravely pasted one 
 of the stars on the toe of her left boot: "To keep you re 
 minded," 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 un 
 justifiably 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 mas 
 ter gave her his blessing and told her to go in and win. In 
 the Varsity competition, she qualified with a highly re 
 spectable round, and in the play-off for the team, won 
 
62 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 her place. The team captain posted the choice for the 
 yearly match against Kirk College on the athletic bulle 
 tin, one line of which read: 
 
 No. 4 M. Ames. 
 
 f 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 11 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 63 
 
 "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 ornamen- 
 taj 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 suc 
 cessful 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 interna 
 tional 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 Journal 
 ism 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? Con 
 sidering 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 
 
64 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 free 
 dom of an aged golf-professor there s a charge of dy 
 namite 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." 
 v_ "What do you want to do?" 
 
 "Oh, just to have a hand in things, in a real, live Ameri 
 can 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 con 
 descending 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 65 
 
 typically American college, and a list was made up for me. 
 I chose the University of Centralia to be with my moth 
 er 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 "be 
 fore anything was settled for me, he consented. Think 
 what a wrench it must have been for his old-world preju 
 dices 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 
 
66 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 Ameri 
 cans 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, some 
 times." 
 
 "Like your standing up alone at the Federated Ger 
 man 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 67 
 
 "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 pub 
 lished," 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 inter 
 ception. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 A BSTENTION from the art and practice of golf for 
 ./V. 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 it 
 self. 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 rela 
 tions brought about by her half-acceptance of his devo 
 tion, 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 Mareia of unfairness. Yet 
 could he honorably ask her to marry him and tie herself 
 
COMMON CAUSE 69 
 
 to a meager and as yet unpromising career? Within him 
 self Jeremy had begun to assume that confidence of future 
 success which comes with the assured sense of workman 
 ship. 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 an 
 swer 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 trans 
 forms 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 charac 
 terization, came to him. His writings were beginning to 
 earn the knighthood conferred by the clipping shears and 
 
70 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 con 
 viction 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. How 
 ever, 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 do 
 ing it, unless her nerve faltered, which he deemed improb 
 able. 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 71 
 
 "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 car 
 toons 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 
 
72 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 proceed 
 ings 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 ab 
 surd 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 un 
 controllable 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 set 
 tled upon him. Oddments and gleams of past conversa 
 tions in the "Infirmary" came back to him, and he em 
 bodied them. Stroke by stroke there grew up under his 
 
COMMON CAUSE 73 
 
 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 pur 
 pose. But it was the more deadly in effect. By the magic 
 transformation of print it made out of an unpolished, sim 
 ple, generous, fervent, and thoughtful artisan, a laugh 
 able 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 dis 
 tracted 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 man 
 aging 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 11 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 
 
74 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 and hit a ball straight down the center for i6o-odd yards. 
 It was the virtue of her game that she was straight on the 
 pin, nine shots out of ten, thereby overcoming the handi 
 cap 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 ex 
 tended, 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 slay 
 ing, with his first drive, a squirrel in a tree a good hun 
 dred 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. Ex 
 cept 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 help 
 less turf. The gallant foeman was so distressed at her 
 
COMMON CAUSE 75 
 
 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 semi- 
 sardonic 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 scor 
 ing system agreed upon. 
 
 Dismal misgivings, meanwhile, had beset Jeremy Rob- 
 son, the promising young reporter of The Record. Al- 
 
76 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 ready 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. Com 
 plaisant. 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." 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 77 
 
 "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 injus 
 tice." 
 
 "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, 
 sw r eet, simple philosophy his talks between friends in 
 the shop to make a mock of him? " 
 
 "I did n t. I swear I didn 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 sub 
 ject of the sketch would be " crazy for publicity " recalled 
 itself to Jeremy. He swore beneath his breath. "When 
 did you see Eli?" 
 
78 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 79 
 
 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 writ 
 ing of the article cheered up the writer notably. Here was 
 no wounding w r ord 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 en 
 thusiasm. 
 
 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 un tenderly 
 treated. Overnight he had been able to persuade him 
 self that the Wade sketch represented a fine type of loy 
 alty to profession rising triumphant above personal feel 
 ings. All that was needed to reestablish him firmly in 
 the conviction of righteousness, was Marcia s apprecia 
 tion 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 
 
8o COMMON CAUSE 
 
 explain ? As a composition it was distinctly below stand 
 ard 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 Gal- 
 pin. That battered warrior received him with immitiga 
 ble 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 disabil 
 ity, 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 Fenches- 
 ter ll be too small to hold you." 
 
 "I m afraid it hurt Eli Wade s feelings," said the vis 
 itor hesitantly. "Did he say anything to you about it?" 
 
 "Ay-ah. He spoke of it." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 1 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 81 
 
 "Oh, I guess you re stronger than that on The Rec 
 ord." 
 
 "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-de- 
 fensively. 
 
 "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 re 
 serve. 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 wa 
 ters. 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 whis 
 pers 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 opal 
 escent 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 en 
 tered 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 specula 
 tions 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 modu 
 lation of wistful, minor strains : 
 
COMMON CAUSE i 83 
 
 " 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 dark 
 ness. "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 con 
 cluded, 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 row- 
 boat 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 
 
84 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 with 
 drew 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 insist 
 ence. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Haven t I a right to be?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 85 
 
 "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, un 
 even 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 put 
 ting 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." 
 
86 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "But try to be fair to me," he pleaded. 
 
 "Fair to you? I was more than that. I could not be 
 lieve 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 " 
 
 "NickMilliken." 
 
 "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 . " 1 1 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 dark 
 ness 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 ! " 
 
COMMON CAUSE 87 
 
 "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 be 
 cause 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 any 
 thing." 
 
 "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. 
 
88 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 must n 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? " 
 
COMMON CAUSE 89 
 
 "Sometimes I ve thought you must be at least a hun 
 dred." 
 
 "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 11 do anything but give you up." 
 
 "That, too," she said very low. She set her hand trust 
 fully 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. Til 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, inex 
 pressibly 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 W T ade 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 de 
 fense for it: he could convince her of that, and overbear 
 
90 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 un 
 thinkable, 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 as 
 sured 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 go 
 ing 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, pres 
 ently, in a voice which would have been life-like from a 
 phonograph. 
 
 "Told me to tell you." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 9 r 
 
 "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 good 
 bye." Buddy s eyes winked rapidly. " But she did n 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 re 
 ceived by her great-nephew, Jeremy Robson: 
 
 Philadelphia, July 30, 1912 
 I am dead. Do not come to funeral. Letter follows. 
 
 E. GREEK. 
 
 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 hon 
 estly sorry; not on his own account, but for the old lady 
 herself. She had so enjoyed life! Doubtless she had re 
 linquished it with courage; but, also, he felt certain, with 
 profound dissent from the verdict. But, having duly dis 
 missed 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 93 
 
 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 be 
 lieve 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 im 
 probable that I shall communicate any further or more authorita 
 tive 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 ful 
 fill 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 your 
 self. 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. GREEK. 
 
94 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 Perturbation over the prospect of comparative enrich 
 ment was quite subordinated, as Jeremy read this curi 
 ous 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 Wei ton, 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? 
 
COMMON CAUSE 95 
 
 "Do you want me to go out with you?" asked Jer 
 emy. 
 
 "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 weight 
 ily. "On principle, I cannot agree with you. In the pres 
 ent 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 
 MissEdithaGreer?" 
 
 "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 
 
9 6 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 de 
 ceased?" 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 prac 
 tice it, would you have worn mourning for the deceased 
 Miss Greer?" 
 
 "If the dog hadn t stopped to scratch the flea would 
 he have caught the rabbit?" retorted the irreverent Mr. 
 Robson. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 97 
 
 "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 miti 
 gating 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 Mar- 
 cia 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 al 
 most too heavy to be borne, slowly and accurately gath 
 ered up his hat, his gloves, his cane, his portfolio, and his 
 eye-glasses in the absorbed manner of one taking an in 
 ventory. He bowed a solemn and professional farewell 
 to Mr. Robson. At the door he paused. A gleam as of 
 
98 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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. " No thing," 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 bless 
 edly 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 11 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 
 
ioo COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 did n 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE ici 
 
 "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 
 
102 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 103 
 
 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 new 
 comer 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: 
 
 11 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 any where. Any 
 how the Schools belong to the Germans : that s their spe 
 cialty. 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 
 
104 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 11 
 help people think. Oh, these fools ! They can t see edu 
 cation is what s going to dish em all and bring on the 
 Social Revolution." 
 
 ! "Don t you talk against Martin Embree, Nick," ad 
 monished 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?" 
 i "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 Rec 
 ord office " 
 
 "On the ball of his sole," put in the Boot & Shoe Sur 
 geon. 
 
 "Pussyfooting. Of course. He 11 suggest to Mr. Farley 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 105 
 
 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. Far 
 ley 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 puff 
 ery for the puniest 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 de 
 mand? 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 any 
 way. They needed it." 
 
io6 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 " 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 her 
 self, 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 meet 
 ing, while she was still so completely unknown that he had 
 mistaken even the fundamental matter of sex; the im 
 pression 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 com 
 mands 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 ad 
 mitted 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. 
 
io8 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "I m from The Record," he said. 
 
 "Take this." The public-utilitarian began to dic 
 tate. . . . 
 
 "Got that? Be sure to be accurate. This is important." 
 
 To the reporter it seemed neither important nor in 
 teresting. It was a statement concerning a projected 
 change, petty, administrative, and technical, in the con 
 duct 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 pas 
 sage. "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 inten 
 tion of losing so valuable a man as Robson. ( 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 109 
 
 "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 cau 
 tious, 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 confi 
 dently declared that the speech would terminate the pub 
 lic life of Smiling Mart, who, by the way, had smiled only 
 twice in the whole course of his effort, once at the begin 
 ning 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 crys 
 tallized a somewhat indefinite policy of progressive radi 
 calism into a compaign for the rescue of the State from 
 
i io COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 al 
 most in a body and without much respect to party. These , 
 were unassimilated Americans; Scandinavians, a few 
 Dutch and Italians, but mostly Germans. Martin Em 
 bree had the unbounded confidence of these elements, 
 particularly the Germans. He had cultivated it assidu 
 ously, 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 Ger 
 man-American, uplifted in the conviction of racial right 
 eousness, reform is a word sanctified for his own uses. Re 
 form means compelling other people to think as he thinks. 
 Therefore he solemnly adopts it. Reform, to these North 
 ern 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 posses 
 sor 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE in 
 
 one of reporting orally, rather than writing. This acting 
 as political lookout he quite enjoyed; it gave him a flat 
 tering 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 ex 
 ample! 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 him 
 self 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 ex 
 pectation. 
 
 " 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." 
 
ii2 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 Slip 
 pery 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 news 
 papers," said The Record reflectively. 
 
 "Fool trick, though. They always get in the last wal 
 lop." 
 
 "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 ex 
 perienced 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." 
 
 "Whatga " 
 
 "The whole, dam , slick, polite graft that makes the 
 
COMMON CAUSE 113 
 
 machine run so smooth and nice and turns out the pretty 
 little dividends for the banks and the railroads and the 
 big companies generally. Have n t you seen into that 
 millstone yet?" 
 
 "You talk as if you were really on Embree i 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 Guard 
 ian." 
 
 "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 ur 
 chins savoring a golden and imaginative treat. 
 
 "Mr. President." 
 
 The resonant tones of Martin Embree s rich and effort 
 less 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 docu 
 ment, 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 converg 
 ing upon that document. His subject was the "cheese 
 check" scandal which had roused the dairy fanners of 
 his region to fury. He traced the steps whereby the com 
 mission men s combine had sought legislation which 
 would have rendered the producer almost helpless in 
 
ii4 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 de 
 rided as a silly reformer by one of the local newspapers, 
 and denounced by the other in terms which, were cir 
 cumstances 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 rele 
 vant manner. Will the clerk of the Senate kindly read 
 this letter, which fell into my hands by a happy acci 
 dent, 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 enve 
 lope," said Senator Embree. 
 
 Profiting by the interruption, the clerk ran his eye 
 swiftly through the one-page letter; but, instead of re 
 suming 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 cham 
 ber. 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 115 
 
 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 ad 
 dress 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 hesita 
 tion. 
 
 " Mydear Mr. Dorlon, " repeated the clerk: " I have 
 yours of the iQth with directions for claiming the last pay 
 ment 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 con 
 viction: "Well, I am damned!" Which inspired another 
 voice (also unidentified) to adjure solemnly, "Burn this 
 letter." The Senate found relief in nervous, shrill, titter- 
 
n6 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 ing laughter. " Will the papers print that? " shouted some 
 body, and the presiding officer recovering, hammered 
 vehemently for order. 
 
 " Gentlemen, " concluded Martin Embree, the damna 
 tory letter raised to the level of his head, " I leave to this 
 honorable body the determination as between the Hon 
 orable A. M. Wymett, editor and proprietor of The Fen- 
 chester 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? " 
 
 11 1 knew he took orders. I did n t know he took 
 money. We all take orders. You 11 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." 
 
 "lean." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 117 
 
 "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 won 
 dered 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 perma 
 nency 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 Rec 
 ord 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 
 
ii8 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 half a column of the rest. And go light. It s ticklish 
 ground." 
 
 After finishing, Jeremy went out for a long and thought 
 ful walk. On his return home he found a letter with the 
 letterhead of Messrs. Hunt & Hunt, Attorneys, of Phila 
 delphia. 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 convinc 
 ing 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 unchari 
 table world by wires of communication, he further fortified 
 his position by cutting off the telephone. He then pro 
 foundly considered his prospects and as profoundly mis- 
 liked 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 defi 
 nite nature of the exposure? Mr. Wymett supped gloom 
 ily 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 
 
120 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 Rob- 
 son 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 did n t 
 trust young Robson. He did n t trust The Record. For 
 that matter he was not in a mood to trust anybody or any 
 thing 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 121 
 
 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 at 
 taining the goal. The caller s quick eye noted the move 
 ment. "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 disturb 
 ingly indeterminate between confirmation and incredu 
 lity. 
 
122 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 " 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 in 
 tended 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," re 
 turned 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 in 
 telligence. 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 Guard 
 ian 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." 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 123 
 
 "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. Sev 
 enty 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?" in 
 sinuated 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 peni 
 tentiary. 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 de 
 canter again. 
 
 "So, you see how far it s gone. Now, if it is known 
 
124 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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." 
 J "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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 125 
 
 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 manage 
 ment, 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-a-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, slov 
 enly, 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 
 
126 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 who regretfully deprives a child of a sweetmeat 
 " you 11 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 Secre 
 tary for them all. You 11 print what they tell you to and 
 you 11 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 conserva 
 tives at heart." 
 
 "Not me," denied Jeremy. "Not the conservative 
 part, anyway. But I 11 leave The Guardian his trumpet." 
 
 "That trumpet! I was going to rock the walls of Jeri 
 cho 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 127 
 
 "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 re 
 morseless 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 Mid 
 dle 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 Ger 
 many of us right here in this State and city by slow, 
 methodical, Teuton education, managed by our school 
 
128 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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," contin 
 ued 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 11 sell out, all at once. It s a grad 
 ual 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 prefer 
 ment." 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 differ 
 ent. Make a better job of it. Keep to my ideals. Perhaps 
 not. Too heavy odds." His eyes lifted again with a 
 
COMMON CAUSE 129 
 
 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-ruin 
 ous bargain.] 
 
 Late as was the interview, he could n t go to bed with 
 out telling Andrew Galpin. Much depended on that as 
 tute youth. Jeremy routed him out of bed, at his board 
 ing-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 Guard 
 ian." 
 
 "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, crest 
 fallen. 
 
 "Twenty thousand nice, fat, round, cool dollars is 
 what s the matter with it. Why did n t you tell me?" 
 
 "Didn t have the time. I caught Wymett when he 
 was scared." 
 
130 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "He caught you when you were easy," retorted Gal- 
 pin 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 131 
 
 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 P 
 
 "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 dis 
 hevelled 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 Guard 
 ian. 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 imper 
 sonal insolences by the shibboleth, "rippawtah." No 
 body 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 An 
 drew Galpin, who had said of the pleasant pursuit of edi 
 torial 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 ne 
 cessities of hired-man (or worse-than-hired-woman) jour 
 nalism. 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 dif 
 ferent paper, however, from the feeble and dubious Guard 
 ian. More potent was the influence, never wholly abated, 
 
i 3 6 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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, independ 
 ent 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 trust 
 worthy 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 ac 
 tivity. 
 
 It was no easy task which Jeremy Robson had set him 
 self, 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 137 
 
 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 in 
 frequently 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 ad 
 vice 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 capi 
 tal, with its seventy thousand inhabitants, was The Rec 
 ord. 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 repre 
 sented 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 cor 
 ruptible to put on incorruptibility, in the newspaper 
 world, is a phenomenon so rare as to be practically neg 
 ligible. 
 
 
138 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 Soon or late these questions would come to an issue be 
 tween 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 semi- 
 public 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 hith 
 erto impressed him as important, loomed as figures and 
 probably antagonists in the struggle. Jeremy found him 
 self 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 en 
 tered into Jeremy Robson s calculations. On paper he 
 had figured a clear profit for The Guardian, before pur 
 chasing. After taking over the property he found his esti 
 mates 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 
 paper s 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, 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 139 
 
 The Guardian had more scales than even so fishy a propo 
 sition 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 trans 
 actions by a system of ingenious and destructive rebates. 
 Thus, the columns which young Mr. Robson had confid 
 ingly calculated at four to nine cents per line, were actu 
 ally 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 11 have a one-price-to-all system hereafter." 
 
 "Ay-ah," drawled Andrew Galpin, to whom the deci 
 sion was communicated. "Your advertisers 11 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 
 
140 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 11 tell you one thing. If you re 
 going to change the entire advertising policy, you 11 have 
 to change your advertising manager, for Perley don t 
 know anything different from the news-selling and rebate 
 game." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 141 
 
 "Parley 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 manager 
 ship 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 aver 
 age 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, 
 
142 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 and because they advertise they ll think thev/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 sug 
 gested that there might be difficulties attending the ful 
 fillment 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 invita 
 tion 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 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 143 
 
 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 Turn- 
 bull, of the Emporium. 
 
 "Bluff," opined Turnbull. 
 
 "Get up and call it," suggested A. Friedland, proprie 
 tor 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 ram 
 bling talk which Andrew Galpin would have fairly slaugh 
 tered 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 let- 
 
144 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 ter 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 Guard 
 ian. His secret rebates do not bind us indefinitely." 
 
 "The courts 11 have a word to say on that," declared 
 the combative Ahrens. 
 
 "Easy, gentlemen! Let s be friendly," purred Mat 
 thew 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 Gal- 
 pin s strategy. 
 
 "Why ain d I neffer gud any discound?" inquired Ber 
 nard 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 145 
 
 voice which seemed to emanate from the depths of the 
 abdominal curve of the senior partner of Arndt & Nie- 
 buhr, 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 Fried- 
 land, 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 en 
 lighten 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 Guard 
 ian s revolutionary proprietor. "No more readers ex 
 cept 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." 
 
146 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 " 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 posi- 
 tiveness, "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 read- 
 ily. 
 
 " 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 
 bonafide circulation, and I 11 adjust my rate to make it as 
 
COMMON CAUSE 147 
 
 low per thousand as any daily in the State of equal size. 
 Is that fair?" 
 
 "Yes. I guess that s fair enough," answered the Re 
 tailers 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 Guard 
 ian 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 gen 
 eral knowledge concerning The Guardian s former man 
 agement. 
 
 "Now, you re talking!" said Betts. 
 
 Dot s goot. I like dot," added Stockmuller. 
 
 It was the first evidence of approval that the new pol 
 icy 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. 
 
148 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 associa 
 tion, 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 inaccu 
 rate," 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 149 
 
 "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 adver 
 tiser?" 
 
 "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 ex 
 press 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 Guard 
 ian 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 with 
 drawing 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 fo 
 cused themselves angrily on the host. "S pose I go motor- 
 
150 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 ing 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 in 
 fernal 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, unex 
 pectedly. 
 
 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 
 wanta 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 any 
 body else." 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 151 
 
 "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 get 
 ting excited." 
 
 "Thinks he can run the town," growled Ahrens. 
 
 "There is much in Mr. Robson s point of view," con 
 tinued the pourer of oil. "And I am sure that he will con 
 cede 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 ad 
 vertisers 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. 
 
I 5 2 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 pre 
 pared 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. Nine- 
 teen-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 apos 
 tles of cleanliness, comprising the Laundry Association 
 of Fenchester, indignantly notified The Guardian of the 
 withdrawal of their patronage. 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 153 
 
 "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 Cen- 
 tralia." 
 
 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. Ap 
 peased by this practical and to them profitable conces 
 sion, 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 circu 
 lation, thereby giving the paper augmented advertising 
 value, and raise the advertising rates proportionately. It 
 had been agreed between the Retailers Association com 
 mittee 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 155 
 
 knew that it had to, or pass ignominiously out of exist 
 ence! 
 
 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 gallop 
 ing consumption. And though the public talked about 
 The Guardian and speculated interestedly upon its fu 
 ture, 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 in 
 terest in journalism were quietly watching and estimat 
 ing 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 Fen 
 chester s undiscerning citizenry ever dreamed, were con 
 cerned with the newspapers as affecting their own plans, 
 and were specially concerned with Jeremy Robson s news 
 paper 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. 
 
156 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 read 
 ing the articles on tax-dodgers?" 
 
 " I have." 
 
 "What is the purpose of them, if not to stir up socialis 
 tic 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 somno 
 lent 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 157 
 
 "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 back 
 ing." 
 
 "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 edu 
 cation on the transfer question, through the newspapers," 
 he decided. "Including, of course, The Guardian." 
 
158 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "Straight-out, a-d-v kind of advertising?" 
 
 "Hardly. The usual thing. Well-prepared articles. Per 
 haps 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," re 
 marked 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, Ed 
 ward Garson, the hand-perfected private secretary who, 
 besides his immediate duties about the great man s per 
 son, acted as go-between in minor matters, press-agent, 
 and advertising manager for the Fenchester Public Utili 
 ties Corporation. Concerning him, Judge Dana had once 
 remarked that the queerest thing about it was that it also 
 had brains. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 159 
 
 "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 hun 
 dred 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 ad 
 vertising bill of The Guardian s; what was the bill as 
 rendered?" 
 
 Looking to Montrose Clark for permission and receiv 
 ing it in a nod, the hand-perfected secretary replied, "Six 
 teen 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. 
 
i6o COMMON CAUSE 
 
 The young fool bought on the basis of the book rates. 
 Discounts and rebates are going to be an unpleasant sur 
 prise 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-sen 
 sitiveness, 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 11 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 fric 
 tion, 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 un 
 important 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 Em 
 bree, however, was ever wholly impersonal. He was too 
 intense a humanist for that. As the Legislature had ad 
 journed for the summer, Jeremy was surprised to see Em 
 bree at the capital. 
 
 " Hello, Senator," he said, shaking hands. "What 
 brings you down here in all this heat and dust? 7 
 
 "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. Congratu 
 lations, by the way." Jeremy nodded. "Do you remem 
 ber a little talk we had in my room, one night?" 
 
1 62 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 Assem 
 blyman. I guess they 11 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. 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 163 
 
 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 in 
 volved," 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 earnest 
 ness. "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 thou 
 sand copies. Perhaps fifteen hundred." 
 
164 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 11 take it like the Bible." 
 
 "There might be something in that," conceded the edi 
 tor, who knew the almost idolatrous quality of Embree s 
 following in his own district. 
 
 "Make no mistake about it. It 11 mean four or five hun 
 dred copies in my own town, and it ought to run to a thou 
 sand 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 165 
 
 "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 inter 
 ests, 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, Rob- 
 son. 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 be 
 tween 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 de 
 livering our government out of the clutches of the corpora 
 tions. 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 
 
166 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 de 
 votion second only to the monstrous egotism which sub 
 ordinated 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 mone y can stop me. This campaign of mine 
 for reelection to the Senate is really a preliminary skir 
 mish 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 167 
 
 That s what I do on my speaking tours. If it s a Swedish 
 community, I tell em the Scandahoovians are the back 
 bone 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 11 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 
 
168 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 they re talking of running him for Governor next time, 
 because they think they 11 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 Girdnerin the 
 press-room. There s another German for you, Girdner, 
 
COMMON CAUSE 169 
 
 and a good one. Well, I 11 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 \Vade 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 wear 
 ing 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, unbut 
 toned the coat, took from the breast-pocket thereof a 
 
i;o COMMON CAUSE 
 
 document formidable with seals and tape, dandled the 
 precious thing reverently in its hands, and addressed the 
 editor with solemnity. 
 
 "I have here somed thing 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 un trammeled 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 171 
 
 "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 re 
 trieved 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 exas 
 perated 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. 
 
i?2 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 gen 
 teelly 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 173 
 
 "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 confi 
 dently. "I c n start in to-morrow." He watched, sym 
 pathetically, 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. WTiat 
 did she mean by that?" 
 
174 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 boy 
 hood, "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 Guard 
 ian 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 circula 
 tion 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 dedi 
 cation, Senator Embree reproached Jeremy for his tact 
 lessness in handling the Prince Henry message. 
 
 " Don t stick your fighting-jaw out at me, young Rob- 
 son," 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, 
 

 1 76 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 11 have something to say about 
 The Guardian. Watch the effect of the spread of the gos 
 pel 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 in 
 vited (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-conscious 
 ness 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. 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 177 
 
 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 news 
 paper 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 em 
 ployer 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 be 
 nevolently. Point out to him the error he was commit 
 ting : 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 han 
 dling 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 pre 
 sumably reasonable young fellow with a property to 
 consider! In his satisfied mind, the public utilitarian out 
 lined the course of the conversation, with himself (natu- 
 
i;8 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 rally) as converser and his visitor contributing the antiph- 
 ony 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 Rec 
 ord, 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 transac- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 179 
 
 tion 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 min 
 utes 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 pro 
 tested. 
 
 "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 Cor 
 poration 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 when 
 ever 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." 
 
i8o COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "So shall I. When I receive the courtesies." 
 
 "The advertising patronage " 
 
 "Don t talk to me about advertising," broke in the edi 
 tor. "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. Carson 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 informa 
 tion, I may say, on the stock market, for instance, amount 
 ing to really advantageous opportunities." 
 
 "I see!" 
 
 "Such information is still er available." 
 
 "I see, again. Would Mr. Clark confirm the proposi 
 tion, do you think?" 
 
 The hand-perfected private secretary beamed. His 
 mission, self -inspired, was prospering famously. "Un 
 doubtedly," he averred. 
 
 "In writing?" 
 
 "Mr. Clark s word is " 
 
 "As good as his bond. Naturally. I was merely think 
 ing 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 181 
 
 "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 11 take cash 
 and publish the news in the paper." 
 
 "What did you do to little Eddie Garson?" asked An 
 drew 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 unbear 
 able 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 
 
 
182 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 de 
 manded. 
 
 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 11 
 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 assess 
 ment 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 im 
 mediate 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 183 
 
 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 hu 
 man complications constructed, and thereby the plans of 
 the mighty brought to dust! 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 POLITICS as such had never greatly interested Jer 
 emy 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 Jour 
 nal 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 weigh tiness, in support of the new movement. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 185 
 
 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 stockhold 
 ers. 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, con 
 futed, 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 in 
 sistent problems of a newspaper s existence and suste 
 nance, 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, in 
 dividually, as controlling The Guardian. His visiting list 
 became inconveniently large. People took to dropping in 
 at the office to discuss, advise, approve, or object, particu 
 larly 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 procure 
 ment 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 
 
1 86 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 
 hut the dream of such pessimistic and flighty minds as A. 
 M. Wymett s, when politics began to boil again in Cen 
 tralia, 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 com 
 ment, in the pages of The Guardian, as representing fran 
 chise-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 Lau 
 rens quietly. " I came to tell you something." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 187 
 
 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. 
 
 11 Political criticism is one thing. Innuendoes of crook 
 edness and graft are another." 
 
 " We 11 reach no common ground as regards your water- 
 power 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 representa 
 tions, he had assumed Laurens s operations to be founded 
 in corruption. But what proof had he, after all? 
 
 "The Bollard s Falls Charter " he began and was 
 cut short. 
 
 "The records are open to you. The books of the com 
 pany are open to you. I 11 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 inter 
 ested 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 Bel 
 lows and that lot. Bear that in mind. If you couple me 
 up with them again, I 11 be back here for real trouble." 
 
1 88 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "Coming back to lick the editor?" asked Jeremy, con 
 templating the muscle-packed figure of the other with a 
 smile. " If so, I 11 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 con 
 sideration, 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 di 
 rection, 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 189 
 
 "Then you Ve done better than scare me. You Ve con 
 vinced me that you mean what you say. You and I can 
 fight fair." 
 
 " I 11 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 radi 
 cal 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?" 
 1 "The Reverend Theo Gunst, Henry Dolge, and Pro- 
 
190 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 fessor 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 develop 
 ment of Deutschtum. Have you ever seen the German 
 izing 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 estab 
 lishment 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. Lau- 
 rens?" smiled Jeremy. 
 
 "Call it an exchange." 
 
 "All right. Yes: we 11 oppose it. What about you?" 
 
 "It s well enough known where I stand." 
 
 "As a private citizen, yes. But as candidate for Gov 
 ernor?" 
 
 "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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 191 
 
 out of people s minds readily. That s something." He 
 paused, then added casually: "By the way, our first meet 
 ing 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 11 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 
 
192 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 some 
 thing 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 for 
 mally 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 193 
 
 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 pol 
 icy 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." 
 
 4 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, Mar 
 tin. That was news; therefore worth printing." 
 
194 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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, appre 
 ciate what you ve done for the paper." 
 
 Indeed, Jeremy had always given ungrudging acknowl 
 edgment 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 as 
 sistance 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 Milli- 
 ken. 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-Amer 
 ican 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 protege, 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 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 195 
 
 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 nomina 
 tion 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 
 
 F I^HAT phenomenon of finance which has relegated 
 J_ 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 mer 
 chants paid the higher charge, and, in many cases, in 
 creased 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 An 
 drew 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 origi 
 nally suggested to the new boss A Short Life and a Merry 
 One as The Guardian s appropriate motto, was now opti 
 mistic. He confidently believed the paper to be within 
 measurable distance of assured success. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 197 
 
 "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?" 
 
 Gal pin 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. Wan 
 ser 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 re 
 mained 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. 
 
198 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 poi 
 son. The poison of class hatred, of political unrest, of ra 
 cial 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 impu- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 199 
 
 tation of unworthy motives, for example, can do nothing 
 but harm. A community such as this should be a brother 
 hood, 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 ene 
 mies, but you lose support." 
 
 "But a newspaper has got to take sides on public ques 
 tions," 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, explana 
 tory, enlightening comment." 
 
 " It won t do the business. Take this tax matter " 
 
 "A(c)h! Very unfortunate ! Very unfortunate!" mur 
 mured 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 prop 
 erty" 
 
 "They re not attacks on property, when property plays 
 
200 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 hav 
 ing been the victim of the old lady s spiciest line of com 
 mentary, 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 circula 
 tion for The Guardian and enmities for its owner were 
 inevitable concomitants in the making. Every local ques 
 tion 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 es 
 poused the policy that news is a commodity to which the 
 
COMMON CAUSE 201 
 
 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 consid 
 eration 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 him 
 self 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 criti 
 cism in public matters, as befitted a follower of Embree, 
 was mildly deprecatory of what he termed "Mr. Rob- 
 son s hedgehoggishness toward advertisers." Malicious 
 tongues, moreover, had been at work among the Germans, 
 
202 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 who formed an important part of the local mercantile 
 world, spreading the report that The Guardian was se 
 cretly 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 consider 
 ably 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- 
 vsawdering 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 dis 
 crimination 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 neigh 
 borhood in print the reputable concerns resent. 
 
 To offset this, the paper had lost in volume of local ad 
 vertising. 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 203 
 
 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 man 
 ager passionately stated to Jeremy, " derogatory as hell." 
 He demanded a retraction. The editor politely regretted 
 that facts were both untractable and unretractable mat 
 ter to deal with. The Turnbulls threatened libel. Jeremy 
 told them to go ahead and promised to print daily ac 
 counts of the proceedings. The Turnbulls resorted to vio 
 lent 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 be 
 wailed 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 de 
 manded. 
 
204 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 de 
 parted 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 announce 
 ments 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 elec 
 tion 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 show- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 205 
 
 ing, 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 Gal pin 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 mak 
 ing 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, read 
 ers and followers of The Guardian. Because of that fel 
 lowship, 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 edi 
 tor," 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 grow 
 ing business and a growing influence to wield, and, added 
 
206 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 satis 
 factory 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 Guard 
 ian, 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 207 
 
 of education, with more to follow, he 11 take his orders 
 like the others. I 11 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 de 
 clared. " 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 11 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 prob 
 ability 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 "inter 
 pretation" 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 dam 
 age 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 
 
208 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 profession, while recognizing his abilities, were still sus 
 picious of him, though not to the point where any protest 
 was likely to be made in the face of such powerful in 
 terests 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 11 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 ap 
 pointment, 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 ex 
 pression 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 per 
 fect 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, 
 
COMMON CAUSE 209 
 
 what have you against the Public Utilities Corpora 
 tion?" 
 
 "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 unpleas 
 antly 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 bull 
 doze or bribe the Council, if we keep our hands off." 
 
 " Fair words, my boy ! Fair words ! Has n t The Guard 
 ian ever done any bulldozing?" 
 J l expect it has in a good cause." t 
 
210 COMMON 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 un 
 derstand. 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 ac 
 cepted 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 211 
 
 and reasonable?" pleaded the lawyer, with a plausible 
 gesture of laying the matter out for equitable judg 
 ment. 
 
 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 be 
 cause there are so many things I m trying not to be afraid 
 of I 11 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." 
 
212 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 mes 
 sage, Judge? You can tone it down, you know, and tem 
 per 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 11 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 chemi 
 cal reaction were taking place inside him ; and from the 
 exhalations of that turmoil, there crystallized a most un 
 wise decision. Montrose Clark decided upon reprisals 
 with his enemy s own weapon. He had Garson write 
 several personal attacks upon Jeremy Robson, and intimi 
 dated Farley into publishing them in The Record, at 
 special advertising rates, a procedure decidedly painful to 
 Farley s views of professional ethics and journalistic fel 
 lowship. Jeremy retorted with a series of hasty but ra 
 ther brilliant imaginary interviews with one "President 
 Puff," which all but drove the subject of them into an apo 
 plexy, and were a source of joy to the ungodly, albeit dis 
 creetly 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 Rever 
 end Mr. Merserole, Montrose Clark s rector, and the bene- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 213 
 
 ficiary 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 finan 
 cial 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-in 
 citing, self-seeking, conscienceless journalism was lifted 
 up to public reprobation in a pillar of fiery invective. The 
 Guardian violated all precedent by publishing the live 
 lier 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 Rev 
 erend Mr. Merserole was pained and annoyed for the 
 remainder of the week by a steady influx of marked cop 
 ies 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 Rob- 
 son 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 feoo-or-more 
 educational advertising from the P.-U. Indeed, there was 
 no educational advertising. The transfer issue was passed, 
 
214 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 considera 
 tion 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 Em- 
 bree would carry the radical banner was a foregone con 
 clusion. Magnus Laurens was logically the man to op 
 pose 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 conserva 
 tive, reliably hostile to all the quasi-socialistic theories 
 threatening the control of the State. Moreover his per 
 sonal 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, subterra 
 nean propaganda of German influence, German culture, 
 German hopes and ambitions and future dominations 
 which had for a quarter of a century established itself re- 
 productively 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 citi 
 zens. The Cultural Language Bill was quite harmless in 
 appearance, so astutely had it been drawn. Under pre 
 tense 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 
 
216 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 study" with the heaviest ratio of credits, and, in the ad 
 vanced 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 Cen- 
 tralia 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 tech 
 nical 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 217 
 
 a solemn, dull, and impressive occasion, and The Guard 
 ian representative sent to report it almost yawned his 
 head off. He sadly envied his boss whom he had met com 
 ing 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 be 
 lieved 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 redoubt 
 able 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 con 
 template any possibility of your changing. Have you read 
 the Cultural Language Bill?" 
 
218 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 Lau- 
 rens, smiling. "You need n t answer. Remember our con 
 versation 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 illuihinating side touches, turned 
 that innocent-seeming measure inside out and revealed 
 
COMMON CAUSE 219 
 
 some interesting phenomena on the inner side. One re 
 mark 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 edi 
 tor 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." 
 
220 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 " 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, frown 
 ing. "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 ex 
 pressive 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 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 221 
 
 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, re 
 ligious and lay, attacked The Guardian as an exponent of 
 a narrow and blighting Know-Nothingism. One or two 
 small German organizations passed high-sounding resolu 
 tions 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 ad 
 vertising patron of The Guardian. On the morning follow 
 ing the hearing on the bill he met Jeremy on the street 
 and stopped him. 
 
222 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 Ger 
 man mercantile element. The sturdy jeweler alone was 
 enough a man of principle to make his nationalism su 
 perior to his business. 
 
 "Is it worth while?" was the argument posed by Em- 
 bree, 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 11 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 223 
 
 word ; and as he did so he was conscious deep within him 
 self 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 be 
 came a law. 
 
 Unforeseen concomitants marked its political course. 
 Embree, playing expert politics, so arranged matters that 
 Magnus Laurens was challenged repeatedly on the " Cor 
 ner 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, Em 
 bree 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 per 
 suaded 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 
 
224 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 qualm that he met Magnus Laurens, a week after the elec 
 tion, 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 vis 
 ited 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 
 
226 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 spied upon, that probably the local banks knew as much 
 of the financial side of his business as he himself did ; per 
 haps 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 disci 
 pline 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 227 
 
 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 mali 
 ciously. 
 
 Like most retorts inspired by annoyance it was a tact 
 less 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 under- 
 
228 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 stand 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 irrev 
 erently 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 any 
 way? It almost makes me believe that Wymett and 
 Laurens are right in their Deutschtum theory." 
 
 "Don t you go seeing ghosts, Boss," advised the gen 
 eral 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 wiener- 
 wursts 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 presi- 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 229 
 
 dent of the institution, an old, glossy, and important- 
 looking nonentity named Warrington. Mr. Warrington 
 listened with close attention, made some thoughtful fig 
 ures 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 opin 
 ion he confidently believed that there would be no 
 difficulty. 
 
 "There s one thing that worries me, Boss," com 
 mented 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 
 are n 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. 
 
230 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 be 
 lieve 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 Wan- 
 ser 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 231 
 
 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 fol 
 low. 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. Warring- 
 ton 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 con 
 sultation upon a certain florid and self-important gentle 
 man, 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. 
 
232 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 sav 
 ings), 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 advertise 
 ments from the press of the State, for purposes of com 
 parison. 
 
 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. 
 
234 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 flip 
 pant clerk. (The little customer murderously contem 
 plated 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 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 235 
 
 "Oh, gee!" said Buddy ecstatically. Then, with re 
 sentment, " What s the good of school, anyway?" 
 
 " If you re going to be a real newspaper man you 11 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 ex 
 clusive and worshiping Buddy. Her name was never pro 
 nounced in the conversations on the subject between him 
 self 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. Pres 
 ently further reticence became impossible. 
 
 "Mr. Robson!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Them stamps " 
 
 "What would the blue pencil do to a sentence begin 
 ning 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 does n 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." 
 
236 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "What does she think of your work?" inquired the 
 Boss gravely. 
 
 " 1 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 hon- 
 est-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 11 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 mat 
 ter how much they want to. I guess that s about all right ! 
 Ain t it, Boss?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 237 
 
 "It s about all right, Buddy," said Jeremy with an ef 
 fort. That final bit of philosophy had stabbed. 
 
 After the presses had stopped and the offices had emp 
 tied, 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 didn 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 11 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 
 
238 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 judg 
 ment. 
 
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 affection 
 ate and quizzical. 
 
 "Well?" queried Jeremy. 
 
 "D you know we re pretty near two years old?" 
 
 4 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 ad 
 mit. 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?" 
 
 "Whatdoyow?" 
 
 "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 J 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 an 
 other. 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?" 
 
240 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 
 Butchers" 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 11 offer now." 
 
 "You ought to curb that mean, suspicious nature of 
 yours, Boss," reproved Galpin solemnly. "Now, / 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 11 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 241 
 
 "And Clark is going to smooth us down with his ad 
 vertising, 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 en 
 titled 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 doesn 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? J> 
 
242 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 243 
 
 "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 iden 
 tify 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 im 
 portant 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. "Some 
 times 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 practi 
 cal 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 
 
244 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 be 
 cause 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 be 
 fore he spoke. 
 
 "Say, Jem." 
 
 The other looked up, attentive. Seldom, since their 
 new relationship had the older man employed any for 
 mula of address other than the half-jocular, half-official, 
 "Boss." 
 
 "Say it, Andy." 
 
 "Who are you making this paper for?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 245 
 
 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 intui 
 tive 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 
 
246 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 be 
 hind 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 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 247 
 
 fanatic was flung, and in the force of that explosion, 
 the wave of war, which had hung crested and sus 
 pended, 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 
 
 OTRICKEN, at the first, by the unimaginable vast- 
 j^ ness of the tragedy which had befallen Europe, the 
 State of Centralia quickly recovered, and lifted up a 
 thousand voices of acclaim. Germany was being splen 
 didly victorious. Nothing could stop the Kaiser s per 
 fected 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 faith 
 less and foolhardy, penned in her island and slowly 
 starved into submission. Deutschland, Deutschland iiber 
 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" 
 
252 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 Manu 
 facturers* 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 arrest 
 ing 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 253 
 
 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 pub 
 lishing 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 un 
 der suspicion because of its independence, reported the 
 one sensational and interesting speech of the occasion. 
 That single publication, however, gave the matter cur 
 rency. 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 man 
 aging editor and dominant spirit of The Journal, to Fen- 
 chester 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. Didn 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. Gov 
 ernor Legislature dogcatcher; he could n t get 
 elected to anything, if this is handled properly." 
 
254 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "I m giving his speech in full, in to-night s paper." 
 
 "That s it! And a slashing editorial to follow to 
 morrow. 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 11 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 255 
 
 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 legis 
 lation. 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 busi 
 ness 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 fel 
 lows, if the war keeps on long enough." 
 
 "What do you really think about the invasion of Bel 
 gium, 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 watch 
 word, Jem. The President has given it to us, and I guess 
 in international affairs we can afford to follow the Presi 
 dent. Let Magnus Laurens and his gang do the fireworks. 
 They ll only burn their fingers." 
 
 "Belgium was neutral," said Jeremy gloomily. 
 
256 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 Lau 
 rens speech, however, stirred up a volume of local dis 
 pleasure chiefly on the part of the Deutscher Club ele 
 ment, and The Guardian received some pointed letters on 
 the subject of neutrality. 
 
 "Neutrality," commented Andrew Galpin thought 
 fully to his chief. "That s good business for Mart Em- 
 bree. 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 11 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 257 
 
 game here at home and lick the corporation crowd for leg 
 islative 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 meet 
 ing 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 in 
 vitation, even if it will do us some good !" 
 
 " All right, Andy. I 11 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 ban 
 ners were more flamboyant, more triumphant. The verve 
 
258 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 and swing of "Deutschland, Deutschland iiber 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 as 
 sent 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 neu 
 tral. 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 fin 
 gered 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 par 
 ticularly within so divided a State akhis own, was to 
 thrust the nation nearer to that hell s caldron wherein 
 Europe agonized. The President had prescribed neutral 
 ity. That, Jeremy recognized, was the part of statesman 
 ship. 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 pro 
 gressing, 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 prosely 
 tizing literature; pamphlets, reprints, letters to the edi 
 tor from writers whom he had never heard of (and who in 
 many cases had no existence) as well as from his own cli 
 entele, excerpts from the German press, editorials from 
 
260 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 dis 
 trust 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 sub 
 scriber 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 provo 
 cations while The Guardian had n t a word of it. Sus 
 picion established itself in the editor s mind that some 
 person or persons were making daily and scientific analy 
 sis 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 inflec 
 tions 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 appropri 
 ate to the facts, in order to please their self-appointed 
 masters, the German- American public. But Russia now 
 
COMMON CAUSE 261 
 
 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 un 
 fortunate development. Relegating the Russian cam 
 paign to nooks and corners of the inner pages and qualify 
 ing 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 de 
 fense," 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 Guard 
 ian. 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. 
 
 11 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 
 
262 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 fabrications, put on the tables to fool er influence- 
 able newspapers." 
 
 " Influenceable, eh?" said Galpin, annoyed. "Every 
 body 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 cen 
 soring is inside your editorial office, if anywhere. You re 
 fuse to publish our letters " 
 
 1 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! 
 
COMMON CAUSE 263 
 
 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 im 
 perceptibly widened, as time went on, through minor in 
 cidents, 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 in 
 offensive 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 overwhelm 
 ing 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 ii Montgomery Street, who was well known to Fen- 
 chester 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 
 
264 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 1 
 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. SomethinV 
 
 "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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 265 
 
 "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 sol 
 dier. 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 com 
 prehend. 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 peo 
 ple 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 ..." 
 
266 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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, own- 
 in 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, wonder 
 ing, knew that it would not. 
 
 He went home deviously by way of Montgomery Street. 
 
 The early shoots had lanced their way into the sun 
 shine of the Pritchard garden, and Miss Letitia was mak 
 ing 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 267 
 
 hesitant about approaching Miss Pritchard. In his cam 
 paign 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 news 
 paper 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 un 
 welcome, 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, hope 
 less 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 uncompromis 
 ingly. 
 
 " When are you going to print it?" 
 
 " As soon as you try to dodge em." 
 
268 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 He looked very tired, and his voice had lost something 
 of the buoyant quality of youth which she had always as 
 sociated 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 fianc6 is fighting. Somewhere in the remote 
 colonies, I believe." 
 
 "Fiance?" 
 
 "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 fiance was somewhere in Africa and, I believe, 
 is still there." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 269 
 
 "I see," said Jeremy dully. 
 
 "Marcia still sees The Guardian." The spirit of ro 
 mance 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, think 
 ing of The Guardian in terms of Marcia s letter; hag 
 gardly 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 Guard 
 ian 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 occu 
 pations, and summon his own soul to ponder what a Ger 
 man 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 Cen- 
 tralia had dared lift voice against the cumulative out 
 rages of the conquerors, fearful as all were of the coordi 
 nated 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 explo 
 sive 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-benefi 
 cent, and all-German Gott, and shrieked inquisitorially 
 for a holy ban upon it. All of which, combined, failed to 
 
COMMON CAUSE 271 
 
 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 Jour 
 nal. 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 ad 
 mirer, 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 bat 
 tle-scarred veteran of Middle Western journalism, this 
 was funny. 
 
 It s a fact, though," continued the tired voice. " I al 
 ways think too slow. What are you going to do next?" 
 
 "Next?" 
 
 "About the Lusitania issue. You Ve started it in Cen- 
 tralia. 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 defer 
 ence, made Jeremy tingle. Here was the greatest journal 
 istic power in Centralia, a man whose clarity and courage 
 
272 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 nev/s- 
 paper 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 11 be war to-morrow, 
 and six months from to-morrow there 11 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 Presi 
 dent 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 Kim- 
 ball, who had an uncanny knack of knowing things before 
 they were ready to be known, "is cooking up a bill to off- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 273 
 
 set 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 na 
 tion forfeits all right to the protection of his own coun 
 try." 
 
 " 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 any 
 body, 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 11 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. 
 
274 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 get 
 ting 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 did n 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 busi 
 ness," said the relieved official. "So you don t need to 
 stir up any more trouble for yourself on that score. Some 
 
COMMON CAUSE 275 
 
 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," ad 
 vised the Governor anxiously. "Don t forget that we ve 
 got measures to put through here at home more impor 
 tant than a war four thousand miles away. Harvey Rap- 
 pelje, 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 ques 
 tion 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 
 
276 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 votes, and I 11 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 brother 
 hood 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 in 
 timidation had done its work too well. The most that the 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 277 
 
 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," sol 
 emnly warning the Legislature against interfering in in 
 ternational matters of which they could know little or 
 nothing. The Record replied with a scathing "leader" 
 denouncing The Guardian, under the caption "An In 
 sult to Our State," the purport of which was that Cen- 
 tralia possessed the patriotism, statesmanship, and wis 
 dom 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 Gov 
 ernor. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I will say that the matter is still under advise 
 ment." 
 
 "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? " 
 
 
278 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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-Ameri 
 can 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 Rap- 
 pelje 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 dis 
 cussed. Jeremy committed his unqualified editorial sup 
 port 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 Corpora 
 tion 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 279 
 
 the "Surrender Bill" was brief. Two days after its pas 
 sage he signed it without comment. Jeremy s editorial on 
 the final step in the enactment was dignified and regret 
 ful, but carefully guarded against offense. It indicated 
 plainly that there would be no split between The Guard 
 ian 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 nurried him downstairs and out upon the side 
 walk. 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 fol 
 lowed 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 mani 
 festation of a sardonic intent above the unconscious law 
 makers of Centralia was not the fruit of magic, black or 
 white, but of a simple and easy substitution. The legiti 
 mate 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 Lusi- 
 tania rejoicings, German flags had blossomed broadcast 
 in the streets of Fenchester, and each new submarine suc 
 cess 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 An 
 drew 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. Pri 
 vately they were much inclined to chuckle. The fore- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 281 
 
 handed among them hastened forth with cameras to per 
 petuate 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 jocu 
 larly, as did The Record. But that heavy, Teutonic 
 mirth roused a dogged wrath within him. What he com 
 posed 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 Guard 
 ian. 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 Uni 
 versity 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 material 
 ized. The students stayed and sang and cheered until 
 
282 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 indig 
 nation 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 Gal- 
 pin on hand. The two young makers of The Guardian, 
 shirt-sleeved and alert, received the black-coated delega 
 tion 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 digni 
 tary, Jeremy had been invariably afflicted with mingled 
 exasperation and amusement at Bausch s every action. 
 The apostle of Deutschtum roused within Jeremy an im- 
 
COMMON CAUSE , 283 
 
 pulse 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 sus 
 piciously. 
 
 " 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 thick 
 ening accent. 
 
 " Don t know. Let s hear em." 
 
 The chairman produced from the official pocket a docu 
 ment 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 
 
284 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 expres 
 sively? 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 ac 
 cents. "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, represent 
 ative 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 be 
 low 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 285 
 
 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 Ger 
 man-American in a false light? Isn t that true?" con 
 tinued the relentless voice of Galpin. 
 
 "Are you going to prind that?" muttered Bausch. 
 
 "A newspaper doesn 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 
 
286 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 chair 
 man. "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 discus 
 sion. "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 as 
 signed to tackle him, said he looked like a man who had 
 lost something." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 287 
 
 "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 move 
 ment 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 Butchers 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! Yen-all 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." 
 
 "VerralPs an earnest soul," observed the general 
 manager, "but he s always on the borderland of hys 
 teria, and if an advertiser looks cross at him, over he 
 flops." 
 
 "Yes. He had an attack this morning. Blasius is 
 out." 
 
 "Entirely?" 
 
288 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "Five inches double; three times a week. Gone glim 
 mering 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 VerralPs dismal forebodings 
 came from Arthur Betts, of Kelter & Betts, who dropped 
 in to see Jeremy. Since the first struggle with the Re 
 tailers Association, Betts had proved himself a "good 
 sport," as he would have wished to have it put, in ad 
 mitting 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 op 
 ponent, 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 cancel 
 lations?" 
 
 "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 los 
 ing much?" 
 
 "Some." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 289 
 
 "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 Guard 
 ian. Do you advertise in that paper? W T hat do you do 
 that for? It s no good. Waste of money. I would n t be 
 lieve 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 11 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 edi 
 torial. None retaliated for the attack on the " Surrender 
 Bill." But, little by little, there became apparent a guer 
 rilla 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 com 
 pelled 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 re 
 new from time to time the twenty-thousand-dollar note 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 291 
 
 at the Drovers Bank. No difficulties had been made over 
 the renewals. Nor was the owner of the paper much con 
 cerned 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 tact 
 fully 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 prece 
 dence over everything else in the public mind. The re 
 election of Governor Embree on the anti-corporation is 
 sue 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 candi 
 date, one Tellersen, a stock war-horse of the political 
 stables. A safe representation in either legislative house 
 
292 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 would mean that Embree s pet corporation measure, 
 aimed specially at the P.-U. and its branches, but affect 
 ing 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 ad 
 viser 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 in 
 volved, The Guardian was quite willing to keep off Ger 
 man toes. On his side, the campaigning Governor con 
 sented to emphasize Americanism while still maintaining 
 his attitude of sympathy for the sentiments of the Ger 
 man-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 corpora 
 tion 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 fre 
 quency and fervor, relegating the greater cause to the 
 
COMMON CAUSE 293 
 
 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 atmos 
 phere clearing. The Governor s triumphant reelection 
 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 contempla 
 tion 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 Ameri 
 can 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 
 
294 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 stupid politics ! Don t you know the greatest war in his 
 tory is coming closer to us every day?" 
 
 "I hope not closer to us." 
 
 "A fool s hope! Do you know your Bible, Mr. Rob- 
 son?" 
 
 "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 quota 
 tion 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 composi 
 tion 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 295 
 
 "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 con 
 cerned," 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. 
 
296 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 love 
 liness that wanes not, the Love that ne er can wane." 
 Now, even by so tenuous a thread as his impersonal mes 
 sage 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 appear 
 ance, the references being both cautious and resentful 
 that such a characterization should be allowed to the li 
 cense 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 " hy 
 phenate" as a term carrying a suggestion of reproach. 
 Quite casually, indeed carelessly, it was written in a sen 
 tence 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 Guard 
 ian 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 Ger 
 many 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 
 
298 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 surf aces of the Teutonic skin. 
 Selecting a typical letter, he replied to it in a moderate 
 and good-tempered editorial, pointing out that in the hy 
 phen 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? " 
 
COMMON CAUSE 299 
 
 " 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 busi 
 ness 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 to 
 day 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." 
 
300 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 " 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 re 
 fuse 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 a ds. In 
 other words, Judge Dana, you can t buy our editorial 
 opinions." 
 
 "See, now, how you divert my meaning," reproached 
 he lawyer. "I ve distinctly said that all we expected in 
 The Guardian is neutrality." 
 
 "You can t buy our silence, either." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 301 
 
 " What 11 you take for The Guardian?" asked the law 
 yer 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 pa 
 trons of The Guardian for years, dropped out. One churn 
 manufacturing company was quite frank as to the reason. 
 So much criticism had poured in from the German farm 
 ers, 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 
 
 
302 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 presi 
 dent, Mr. Warrington. Mr. Warrington was gently re 
 gretful, but could not see his way to renew the note. No, 
 not even for half the amount. Money was in great de 
 mand. 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 Carson, the hand-perfected secre 
 tary, his application to see Mr. Montrose Clark. Carson, 
 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 humili 
 ating 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 303 
 
 "That s not a franchise. It s a Hudson s Bay Com 
 pany 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 dis 
 sent," 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 blath 
 erskite, 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 corpora 
 tion 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 forebod 
 ing, 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." 
 
304 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 im 
 pertinence 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, 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 305 
 
 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 endorse 
 ment," insisted the other. " I 11 go up and see him now." 
 
 Arrangements were quickly completed. Nothing eas 
 ier, 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 morn 
 ing. 
 
 "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 Spencer 
 ville. 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 dol 
 lars. This, they hoped, would pull them through. 
 
 Andrew Galpin had won his point by a silent exhibit of 
 
306 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 Assem 
 bly 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 Cen- 
 tralia 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 so 
 cialistic 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 op 
 pressed 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 
 
308 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 pub 
 lic 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 prin 
 cipal realize, passed this observation with a non-com 
 mittal 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 adver 
 tisers, Brother Dana." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 309 
 
 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 edi 
 torially, you 11 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 speak 
 ers. But he came back promptly with "The ads are of 
 fered without stipulations." 
 
 Jeremy considered. Setting aside the money considera 
 tion, 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 ad 
 vertising. 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 mur 
 mured, 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 inno 
 cence. 
 
 "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 11 speak for itself." 
 
 "Let it speak fair. That s all I ask. And see here, 
 
310 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 fra 
 grant and colorful editorials, from all corners of the State 
 to form a wreath for the blushing and debutante candi 
 dacy. These constituted an enthusiastic and determined 
 public demand. Judge Dana urbanely announced that he 
 would accede to it. The Guardian carried the announce 
 ment as news, giving it due prominence. Thereafter, for 
 several days, Judge Dana, Montrose Clark, and a num 
 ber of other important and interested persons, secured 
 early editions of The Guardian each day with more inter 
 est than they would have cared to admit. When the at 
 tack 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 litera 
 ture, with the attributive line: 
 
COMMON CAUSE 311 
 
 " 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 unbeliev 
 ably 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 activi 
 ties were projected, canvassed, and dismissed. Appar 
 ently there was no way either of " handling" Jeremy 
 Robson, or of uprooting a poem once planted and spread 
 ing in the public consciousness. The candidate himself, 
 depressed but philosophical, pointed the way out. A 
 substitute, stodgy but honorable, was found, and the re 
 grettable but timely return of an ancient liver trouble 
 compelled Judge Dana to withdraw from the exigent de 
 mands 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 
 
 
312 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 Rap- 
 pelje. 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 ac 
 tion; 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 Guard 
 ian, in the ousting of Judge Dana. 
 
 How the Judge would take his enforced temporary 
 exile was a speculation which sprang into Jeremy Rob- 
 son 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. 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 313 
 
 "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 gra 
 tis." 
 
 " I 11 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 in 
 dignantly. "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 gen 
 eral manager, scandalized at this threat against one of the 
 most rock-ribbed principles of a tradition-choked calling. 
 
314 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 sim 
 ple 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 presi 
 dential 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 Re 
 publican than anything else in State. Undoubtedly the 
 popular thing to do would be to enter upon a virulent at 
 tack 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 na 
 tion-wide campaign of the hyphen in favor of the Presi 
 dent 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 pro 
 nouncement 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 at- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 315 
 
 tainment; 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 suffi 
 ciently 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 impor 
 tance, in the main, it was not consciously neglected or belit 
 tled. Slowly there had grown up in The Guardian s envi 
 ronment 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 Presi 
 dent was reflected, 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. 
 
3 i6 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 Back at the base of Jeremy s hard-thinking brain there 
 lay a lurking self -accusation. Had he not used the po 
 litical 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 
 
 DUMB A 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 tenden 
 cies 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 pub 
 lic. Strident politicians were filling the atmosphere with 
 irresponsible clamor. The American representatives of 
 Deutschtum were frantically explaining, denying, palli 
 ating, 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 olo 
 year of 1916 which saw civilization fighting with its ba 
 to the wall, the great bubble of Russian might and Rus 
 sian 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, 
 
3i 8 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 pos 
 session 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 trou 
 blous 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 per 
 mitted, he announced his candidacy for the senatorship. 
 With his German following nothing, he believed, could 
 defeat him. The path of glory extended, broad and un 
 obstructed, before his eager feet to the Capitol at Wash 
 ington; 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 319 
 
 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 brudernwere 
 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 B render 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. To 
 night 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 him 
 self 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 dis 
 honored "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 
 
320 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 Ger 
 man 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 cri 
 sis did not more deeply stir Fenchester than the resigna 
 tion 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 in 
 spiring 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 em 
 bellishments. Professor Brender had torn down the Ger 
 man 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 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 321 
 
 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 recollec 
 tions 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 Ameri 
 can only: nothing more (if there be such) and surely nothing less. 
 
 In my American heart there is and always will be a shrine dedi 
 cated 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 Ban 
 ner 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 brother 
 hood of man. 
 
 When he had finished reading that letter, Jeremy Rob- 
 son 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 
 
322 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 German-born, German-bred, German by every tie of 
 life except the profounder bonds of conscience and patri 
 otism, 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 cour 
 age, 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 compli 
 cate 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 323 
 
 upon Embree, who could not well withstand a direct chal 
 lenge to his patriotism. He sketched out three leaders on 
 the topic ; then put them aside and wrote the opening sen 
 tence of that editorial which was to declare unequivocally 
 the status of The Guardian. Thus to declare was to de 
 clare 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 respon 
 sibility 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 interrup 
 tion. 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 go 
 ing into desperate action might meticulously brush and 
 
324 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 set his uniform inscribed the caption, "Under Which 
 Flag?" 
 
 He then did an unaccustomed thing. He made a com 
 plete 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-fin 
 gered 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?" 
 
 "Didn 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 325 
 
 Fench ester 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 sup?" 
 
 "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 secre 
 tary 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 An 
 drew 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." 
 
326 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 * 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 327 
 
 "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 coun 
 try 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 
 
328 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 I m a savage, at least I 11 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," con 
 troverted 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 de 
 manded. 
 
 "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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 329 
 
 "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 J 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 11 find me as ready to 
 fight as anybody," he asserted. "The only difference be 
 tween your position and mine is that I want to be per 
 fectly 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 pur 
 pose. 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 ap 
 proval 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. 
 
330 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "Yes, yes! Of course! And representative ; representa 
 tive of all classes. To make it so I Ve been obliged to in 
 clude some of the German element." 
 
 " Certainly. That s all right, as long as they are n t the 
 Deutschland iiber 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 ap 
 point 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 consid 
 eration in this matter. But if you won t stand for him, 
 
COMMON CAUSE 331 
 
 how about Corliess, of the Lake Belt Line. Cassius Kim- 
 ball 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 repre 
 sentative." 
 
 "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, figur 
 ing 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 sup 
 posing that the dam Botches thus, now, did the gen 
 eral manager at once anathematize and Americanize 
 that element whose solidity and good citizenship all po 
 litical 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 
 
332 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 is turning blue. And something s up in the press-room. I 
 think it s that big gorilla, Girdner. He s a Botch; be 
 longs 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 with 
 out 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 An 
 drew 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. Mean 
 while copies of it from the stolen galleys had been circu 
 lated among the elect of Deutschtum, and a synopsis 
 taken to Governor Embree. He had bidden his inform 
 ants not to worry. There would be no occasion for the 
 publication of that screed. A plan was already com 
 pleted which would take care of Mr. Robson. It was ob 
 served that the Governor looked weary but optimistic. 
 
 Short though the notice had been, the invited confer 
 ees 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 ar 
 rived, 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 him- 
 
334 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 self 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-dis 
 trict dairyman of indeterminate political sympathies, and 
 then Gordon Fliess, of the Fliess Brewing Company, the 
 Lieutenant-Governor, an imposing and obsequious pup 
 pet of the Governor s, and Ernst Bauer of the Marlitts- 
 town Herold und Zeitung. Bunched at the upper end of 
 the table were an ill-assorted trio of The Guardian s ene 
 mies, 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 South 
 ern 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 un 
 comfortable but flattered. Milliken, presumptively rep 
 resenting 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 guberna- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 335 
 
 torial 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 million 
 aire 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 sug 
 gested that the summons had been apportioned with a 
 view to safe control by the Governor. 
 
 To the watchful Jeremy it seemed that Governor Em 
 bree was nervous. The smile at the corners of the concili 
 atory lips was disturbed by a restless twitching. After an 
 anxiously calculating glance over the assemblage he be 
 gan to read from a typed sheet a preamble, concluding: 
 "Therefore, I present for the consideration of this honor 
 able body the following names to constitute the Cen- 
 tralia 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 bludg 
 eon. 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, 
 
336 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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. Instinc 
 tively 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 read 
 ing 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 major 
 ity. 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 337 
 
 color. Embree, motioning with a placating hand for si 
 lence, resumed: "The Honorable Carter N. Rock" 
 
 "Wait!" The scholar s keener voice cut off the read 
 ing. " 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 com 
 pelled the Governor. "It is my carefully considered se 
 lection," 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 star 
 tling. 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 convul 
 sion 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 
 
338 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 formi 
 dable, 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 med 
 ley of voices demanded " Order!" " Throw him out!" 
 "Arrest him!" There were all the elements of a lively 
 and scandalous melee, waiting only the fusing act. 
 
 Laurens checked it with one sufficient threat. Bran 
 dishing the weighty official gavel of lignum vitae, he stood, 
 a modern Thor, in the unconscious pose and with the 
 menace of the Berseker, and, in a full-throated bellow 
 proclaimed : 
 
 " I 11 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 war 
 rior-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 repre 
 sented by its chief executive. And, as a question of privi 
 lege preliminary to my resignation, I ask whether the list 
 as read is to stand." 
 
 " I will not submit to be bulldozed or intimidated," de 
 clared the Governor huskily. 
 
 "The list stands?" persisted the other. 
 
 " It stands, subject to the approval of this body." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 339 
 
 " 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 at 
 tempt." 
 
 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 thisState? " 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." 
 
 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 Milli- 
 ken 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. 
 
340 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "Congratulations, Mr. Vice-Chairman," purred Mont- 
 rose Clark. It was the first time since the interview about 
 the note that he had conceded the fact of the editor s ex 
 istence. 
 
 "Bad politics, my boy! Bad politics!" said Judge 
 Dana, his head wagging with reprehension, but a mali 
 cious twinkle in his somnolent eyes. 
 
 Cassius Kimball set a friendly hand on Jeremy s shoul 
 der. "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. Lau- 
 rens 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 vik 
 ing 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 sug 
 gestively. 
 
 "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 edi- 
 
I WILL RAISE THE UNIVERSITY AND HANG YOU TO 
 THE HIGHEST TREE ON THE CAMPUS" 
 

 COMMON CAUSE 341 
 
 torial 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 confer 
 ence, 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 as 
 sociation 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 Ger 
 mans 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 long 
 time 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 under 
 standing 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 con 
 sulting me in advance? " 
 
 The Governor s smile became both confident and con 
 fiding. " 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 go 
 ing 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 343 
 
 at peace. She does n t want us in the war. And we cer 
 tainly 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 as 
 serts 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 
 
344 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 J 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 any 
 thing. 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 sena- 
 torship," 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 345 
 
 Black shadows of brooding settled upon Embree s 
 handsome face. 
 
 "I ll arrest that frantic fool of a professor," he mut 
 tered. "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?" re 
 torted the other fiercely. 
 
 "Make you wipe out that council of Germans." 
 
 " I won t be bulldozed and blackmailed ! " shouted Em 
 bree in the loud wrath of a weak man cornered. 
 
 "Then it s the lynching party and the end of you polit 
 ically. 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." 
 
346 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 " No. I Ve got to go to the office." 
 
 11 Come back here in an hour, then. I 11 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 al 
 most his normal smile, when Jeremy returned to the Capi 
 tol. 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-Ameri 
 can. 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 hurt 
 ing 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 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 347 
 
 angrily. "You turncoat! You don t know what loyalty 
 is!" 
 
 11 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 11 
 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. 
 
348 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 So there was no interview with Professor Rappelje in 
 that evening s paper. Nor did any account of the viva 
 cious proceedings of the conference appear. These the 
 editor of The Guardian deemed to be confidential. Nev 
 ertheless, 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?" re 
 trieved 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 sensa 
 tion by formally forswearing its support of Governor Em- 
 bree. Its leader for the day, under the heading "He Who 
 is Not For Us is Against Us," established a local and defini 
 tive test of Americanism, and declared all other questions 
 and issues subordinate to the critical interests of the Na 
 tion as a whole. The Guardian would remain steadfast 
 to the internal policies and reforms which Governor Em- 
 bree 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 349 
 
 without local editorial support. At the same time The 
 Bellair Journal quit him. 
 
 The greater necessity that he should keep himself be 
 fore the public in the news. His projected libel suit 
 against The Guardian would be one method. After con 
 siderable delay the suit was filed. 
 
 But here again the unlucky politician missed fire. No 
 body 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 Guard 
 ian, its editor was now to learn. Where, hitherto, the 
 paper had offended, " Smiling Mart" had palliated, ex 
 plained, 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" in 
 terview, given to the papers of the State, in which he sol 
 emnly 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 in 
 evitable. 
 
 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 Gov 
 ernment 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 351 
 
 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 be 
 tween the lines. For them the assurances of the great 
 bulk of their newspapers sufficed. These, either them 
 selves deceived, or fearful of reprisals, or simply accept 
 ing 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 be 
 lieved. 
 
 All that man could do to foster this creed, Martin Em- 
 bree 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 speak 
 ing 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 
 
352 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 rela 
 tions with the Governor. He did not despair, he told Gal- 
 pin, 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 Rec 
 ord 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 break 
 fast 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 in 
 vited 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 organ 
 ized campaign." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 353 
 
 "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 fif 
 teen 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 11 be on the slide. Be 
 sides, 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 pa 
 per 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 feel 
 ings at all to have to slaughter a few Botches." 
 
354 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 per 
 sonally?" 
 
 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 won 
 der. "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 sus 
 picion. 
 
 "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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 355 
 
 for you right here. It s a dandy scrap if there ever was 
 one." 
 
 "It isn 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 isn 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. Uncer 
 tainty in business conditions was producing a logical let 
 up 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 at 
 tack 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 
 
356 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 making capital out of cheap jingoism, and the session had 
 ended in taunts and recriminations. Its echo had fol 
 lowed in the loss of some minor advertisements. The de 
 partment 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 pres 
 ent 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 fight 
 ing, 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 coun 
 try 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, be 
 lieve 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 be 
 fooled the public, and in thus doing lulled themselves to a 
 false security, they were now in a parlous state, not dar 
 ing to affront a nation in arms, fearful of the unmeasured 
 power of their alien supporters, afraid alike of truth, false 
 hood, 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 sur 
 prise, 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 
 
358 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 edi 
 torial 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 anon 
 ymous. 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 ap 
 pointments, evincing in every line their perturbation lest 
 The Guardian s course might compromise them in one 
 way or another. One correspondent had contented him 
 self 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 359 
 
 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 en 
 dure 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 ap 
 peared 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 Ger 
 man advertisers, or of the few which still maintained ran 
 cor 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 un 
 certain." 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 cer 
 tainly not spending it at his desk. 
 
 Extra work was thus thrown upon the overworked Gal- 
 pin. 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 be 
 fore eight o clock to find three hours work by his chief 
 
360 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 already completed and on his desk with a note: "Meet 
 ings at Fairborn and Rocola to-day and to-morrow. Back 
 Thursday." To be obliged to handle part of VerralFs 
 desk job also, in these circumstances, struck the patient 
 and dogged Galpin as excessive. Besides, there were mat 
 ters 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 gen 
 eral 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, isn 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 361 
 
 "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 of 
 fered 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 11 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 urns?" he inquired solic 
 itously. 
 
 "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 de 
 partment 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, 
 
362 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 noth 
 ing 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! Person 
 ally, 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 praise 
 worthy, 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 Ger 
 man 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 363 
 
 " 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 com 
 forted 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 af 
 ford 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 antici- 
 pative 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- All ick to rough up decent folks feelings 
 whenever you want to." 
 
364 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "There was nothing in what I wrote to offend any good 
 American." 
 
 " I guess you ain t the only good American in Fen- 
 chester! 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 de 
 crease in your trade." 
 
 Ahrens flushed. 
 
 "Not in our trade," he asserted; "in yours. The Guard 
 ian J 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 sail." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 365 
 
 "I see. This is our punishment, this half-space allow 
 ance." 
 
 "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-con 
 tained 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?" 
 
366 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "Can t you tell from the sniveling, canting, hypocriti 
 cal 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 Fen- 
 chester. 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 morn 
 ing 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 11 die game." 
 
 "It makes me sick!" growled Galpin. "Oh, I ain t 
 kicking, Boss ! Only it 11 be a tough game if, after all our 
 scrapping, right and wrong and we have n 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 367 
 
 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 care 
 fully." 
 
 "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 em 
 ployer " 
 
 "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 mathe 
 matics proved to the complete dissatisfaction of Jeremy 
 and Andrew Galpin that a store s advertising appropria 
 tion of twelve hundred dollars yearly, say, divided be- 
 tween two papers would give to each six hundred dollars 
 revenue ; whereas divided among three papers it would af 
 ford 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 cor 
 rupted 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 369 
 
 "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 fol 
 lows: 
 
 To the PuVr 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 com 
 mented. 
 
 "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 ex 
 pected quarters. The Emporium, which since the early 
 quarrel had withheld all but occasional special-sale ad 
 vertising, 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 Guard 
 ian office and was received by Andrew Galpin. 
 
 "Mr. Galpin, I hear Ellison Brothers is out." 
 
370 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 11 help any man who fights the Ger 
 mans, 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 371 
 
 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 sight 
 ing the editor, Blasius squared his shoulders to a Prus 
 sian 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 ad 
 vertisement 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 Pro 
 fessor 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 
 
372 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 beset Guardian with financial support there were ten 
 who were swayed adversely by resentment or fear. Mean 
 time 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 as 
 surance 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 Dummkopf- 
 heit" Jeremy set forth the principles of his paper regard 
 ing propaganda. In response to this he received three 
 threats of extinction, eleven of ruin, and two of unprint 
 able 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 373 
 
 "Want to sell, Boss?" 
 "Self 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, cyni 
 cal eyes, as if with an effort. "Are n 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 
 
374 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 things swiftly. The Guardian s days were probably num 
 bered 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 criti 
 cize 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 an 
 swer?" 
 
 " 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 Mon 
 day. By the way, whom do you represent? " 
 
 "Myself." 
 
 "Of course. But who s behind you?" 
 
 "Ah ! Is that wise? " drawled the other. "In the inter 
 ests 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 375 
 
 The other assented, and took his leave. By a rounda 
 bout 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 journal 
 ism, 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 ?" 
 
376 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 deser 
 tion. 
 
 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 let 
 ter of Marcia Ames in which she had committed Buddy to 
 his care. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 377 
 
 "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 dpin . 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 isn t the same." 
 
 "Certainly it isn 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." 
 
378 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 " 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 11 do most any 
 thing to prove to yourself that you 11 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 whip 
 pet 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 nerv 
 ous 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 11 live a hundred years for all of it. But it s there all 
 right." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 379 
 
 "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 isn 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 edito 
 rial 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 
 
380 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 th 
 arms of his chair with violent hands. "And now you teH 
 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, per 
 fectly 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 11 
 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 diffi 
 cult 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, 
 
COMMON CAUSE 381 
 
 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 be 
 stowed a passing and self-gratulatory thought upon the 
 stimulant effect of psychologic suggestion properly ad 
 ministered. 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 de 
 rived from his proud and important bearing that he had 
 matters of moment on his mind ; might further have de 
 duced that he had been on a railway journey, from the 
 presence of a cinder in his ear. He wore the air and ex 
 pression, 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 boy 
 hood; 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 dis 
 cussing 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. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 383 
 
 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 correspond 
 ence 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 in 
 teresting to his readers, and would serve further to en 
 lighten them as to the extent and virulence of local Ger 
 man sentiment. Perhaps, too, it would check the flood. 
 So Mr. Higman sorted and divided and contributed mar 
 ginal 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 
 
384 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 mur 
 derers. Silly though it was to pay any heed, he had to do 
 it. He had to prove to himself the futility of any such in 
 timidation. 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 hand 
 writing which the two-fingered typist, Mr. Burton Hig- 
 man, 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 build 
 ing, and could n t have got there unless some one had 
 
COMMON CAUSE 385 
 
 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 frag 
 ments 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 hap 
 pened. 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 Jere 
 my 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 dark 
 ness 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. 
 
386 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 " Jem,".she said. 
 
 "Marcia!" 
 
 She made one eager step forward. A vagrant gust, 
 ranging the darkness, caught the door and drove it sav 
 agely 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 387 
 
 are quite as carefully turned out as ever," she com 
 mented. 
 
 " 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 splen 
 dor 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 re 
 ceive 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." 
 
388 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 belie vin , " 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 have n 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 389 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "Fora while longer. There d be a chance of our pull 
 ing 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. 
 
390 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 remem 
 bered," 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 be 
 lieve 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 391 
 
 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 palpa 
 ble, 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, com 
 mented 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 
 
392 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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, per 
 formed an impossible curve, chased two horrified and in 
 credulous 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!" ex 
 claimed 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 impor 
 tance 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 un 
 known to herself as to Martin Embree, she was preparing 
 a pitfall for the aspiring feet of Centralia s most bounte 
 ous 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 vio 
 lently 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 under 
 lying 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 paci 
 fists, covert pro-Germans, and political straddlers made 
 up the strength of these bodies, while in the background 
 warily lurked Martin Embree, moulding their activities 
 
394 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 re 
 sponding 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 con 
 joined 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 Cen- 
 tralia. 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 edi 
 torial 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 395 
 
 drawn by his all-excluding ambitions deeper and deeper 
 into the pro-German campaign, newspaper upon news 
 paper 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 inevita 
 ble and unforeseeable attending the institution of a news 
 paper plant. Meantime The Guardian s editorial page 
 had become at once a beacon-fire for the patriotic ele 
 ments and a searching, searing flame for the pan-Ger 
 manic 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 prin 
 ciples and purposes, and setting July 5th as the date of 
 publication. Thereupon, as at a signal, part of the re 
 maining 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, manufac 
 tured in other parts of the State by German or pacifist 
 
396 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 responsi 
 bility 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, any 
 way. If you come to me with any unnecessary informa 
 tion, Andy, I 11 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 397 
 
 to advance a project which he had held in reserve, await 
 ing such an opening. 
 
 "Boss," he said, "there s another buyer in the field 
 for the paper." 
 
 "Who s the crook?" 
 
 "It isn 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 ob 
 serve 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 discom 
 fited 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 " 
 
 
398 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 discon 
 certed. "I m busy," he said. He reached for the imple 
 ment 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 sup 
 pose," 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 11 I 11 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 399 
 
 "Of course," she assented with a gravity which, how 
 ever, 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 11 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 r61e is such a temptation ! " 
 
 Madam Taylor, though she adored Marcia, flatly de 
 clined to invite the editor of The Guardian. "That young 
 mud-wasp" she termed him, and advised the girl to be 
 ware 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 gratifica 
 tion, Mr. Montrose Clark. There was nothing of the gal 
 lant 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 
 
400 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 playful 
 ness. " 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 re 
 gretfully. 
 
 "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 Circum 
 stances " 
 
 "Over which you have no control," suggested her vis 
 a-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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 401 
 
 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 inter 
 est, 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 pre 
 cisely what The Guardian has been doing to me. You 
 have n t been reading it these few years past." 
 
 "Oh, yes. Everyday. 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 Na 
 tion 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 ap 
 peared a heightened color. "No; by thunder! It isn t. 
 
402 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 ex 
 changed 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 uni 
 form?" 
 
 "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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 403 
 
 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, 
 11 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 11 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 Washing 
 ton. 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 perplex 
 edly. "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 
 
404 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 choking The Guardian to death with a contract dishon 
 estly 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? * 
 
 "FromMr.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. ;j 
 
 "Hello! Hello? Hel-lol . . . 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 forth 
 with 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." 
 
406 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "It does not signify. I am here " there was no glim 
 mer 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 po 
 litical situation, The Guardian is going to shift its princi 
 ples. 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? 
 
COMMON CAUSE 407 
 
 Will the new paper cut into your circulation to an ex 
 tent" 
 
 "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 dol 
 lars 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 Brit 
 ish gold. " 
 
 "Indeed! Did he express that theory to you person 
 ally?" 
 
 "He did. He also instructed me as to running my pa 
 per, 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 un 
 fortunately 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 down 
 stairs. 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, 
 
408 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 an 
 nounce 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 11 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 Guard 
 ian be if we were in for twenty thousand more?" 
 fc " 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 al 
 most 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 409 
 
 "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 mark 
 edly 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 
 
 HP. 
 
 "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 rea 
 son for my present solicitude?" 
 
 " Timeo DanaosJ" quoted Jem. "I fear the Danas 
 bearing gifts." 
 
410 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 411 
 
 "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 Gov 
 ernor s little soiree?" 
 
 "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-Ger 
 mans." 
 
 "You don t have to tell me to be good for that. Some 
 thing 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 be 
 fore. Now " 
 
412 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 Cor 
 poration 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 adver 
 tising space amounting to sixteen hundred dollars a year. 
 Jeremy reckoned that with grim satisfaction, as giving 
 
COMMON CAUSE 413 
 
 the paper a few days more of life. On the following morn 
 ing 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" re 
 verted 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 re 
 mained he would fight with a new vigor and for a broader 
 ideal. It would not be long. Magnus Laurens s generos 
 ity meant only a respite; perhaps two or three months ex 
 tra of fighting the good fight. In the owner s heart was 
 no self-deception as to the inevitable outcome. Mean 
 time 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 con 
 fidence of the simple, clean, honest people for whom he 
 had made the paper! 
 
 Strange and unexpected accessions had come to that 
 
414 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 patriot 
 ism, 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 Ger 
 man. "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 11 do it 
 whatever it is you want." 
 
 "I wand you should take my ad back," said Stock 
 muller 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 415 
 
 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 mur 
 mured. 
 
 "Never mind; I know! I 11 start something for em be 
 fore 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 
 
416 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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. Rob- 
 son" 
 
 "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 par 
 ticularly 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 manipula 
 tors 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 wis 
 dom. Miss Ames was seeking light upon her problem 
 wherever she might find it. Her scheme for Magnus Lau- 
 rens had been successful; that in which Montrose Clark 
 was to have played the Beneficent Influence, had pros 
 pered 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 politi 
 cians 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, hon- 
 
 
418 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 est people. Why would they not stand by The Guard 
 ian?" 
 
 " 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 Guard 
 ian 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 419 
 
 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 pon 
 dered, and it became subtle and secret and dark. Yet the 
 girl, watching, liked it and trusted it none the less in this 
 
420 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 manifestation. She knew that the mind within was work 
 ing 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 Guard 
 ian." 
 
 "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 lit 
 tle plot well, I should n t care to have the case to de 
 fend. So, work as quietly as you can. I think a hun 
 dred 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 re 
 member four years ago, at the Federated German Soci 
 eties, 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 upas you did 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 421 
 
 then. I d do a good deal for you, if it were only in mem 
 ory 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 cer 
 tain 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 West 
 ern Union, and all the long-distance wires with fran 
 tic inquiries. Further it may be stated that this sort of 
 law-and-railroad practice is such as would have been se 
 verely 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 
 
422 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 the smallest intention of betraying 1 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 imag 
 ine" he paused, and Jeremy saw a distinct, enlighten 
 ing 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 adver 
 tising." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 423 
 
 "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 11 tell you this : Some of us who are well inter 
 ested in The Guardian, for reasons of our own, are skat 
 ing 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." 
 
424 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 Guard 
 ian 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 but 
 terfly is proverbially supposed to inhere in its indus 
 trious habits. But Miss Marcia Ames, now adopting the 
 schedule of the bee at its busiest, found her earlier butter 
 fly 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 proselytiz 
 ing errand, this enterprising flitter, still trailing clouds of 
 glory from her butterfly hood, left behind her the fructify 
 ing 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. Ac 
 cepting the invitation, the visiting bee leads up diplo 
 matically 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. 
 
426 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 diplo 
 macy. " 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, / 
 don t know. Now, what are you asking me to do?" 
 
 "Help," answers the visiting bee, and sets forth a gen 
 eral outline of her plan. 
 
 "Boycott," observes the shrewd old wasp, after turn 
 ing it over in her mind. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 427 
 
 "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 apprecia 
 tion 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 compre 
 hensive 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 11 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 difri- 
 
428 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 cult, Mrs. Vernam Merserole, wife (and, if rumor be cor 
 rect, head of the house) of the " nickel-in-the-slot " rec 
 tor. 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." 
 
 4 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-mor 
 row. But I do know that he is a broader and more chari 
 table 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. Rob- 
 son" 
 
 "Mrs. Merserole," breaks in Marcia with apparent ir 
 relevance, "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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 429 
 
 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 Fen- 
 chester to help; Miss Abbie Rappelje, sister of the Pro 
 fessor of Economics; Mrs. Montrose Clark; and, chief est 
 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 
 
430 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 without saying a word to her about it. Trust Dana for 
 that! 
 
 While these processes were moving more or less bump- 
 ily 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 devel 
 oping plans in The Guardian s press-room. When a labor 
 leader has sedulously fomented ill-feeling, worked it al 
 most 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 post 
 poned, 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 431 
 
 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 mak 
 ing a speech. Surely that was Nick Milliken s voice 
 Milliken, who had been threatened with arrest if he re 
 turned! 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 11 own it and run it for the com 
 mon good and the common profit. Some day we 11 own 
 all production, and run it for the common good and the 
 common profit ! That 11 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 com 
 mitted 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 
 
432 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 para 
 ble of Milliken, the Socialist. When it was over he tip 
 toed 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 hag 
 gard, 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." 
 
 l 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 gen 
 eral, a*nd he got hit on the jaw. Queer how things come 
 
COMMON CAUSE 433 
 
 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," an 
 swered 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 So 
 cialist. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 SOMETHING queer happened to young Mr. Jeremy 
 Robson on the night of July loth. 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 yester 
 day. Worse than this, there was a dregsy, bitter taste in 
 his soul. It grew and spread ; and presently as he lay mis 
 erably 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, inex 
 orable 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 Mar- 
 cia. 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 nau- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 435 
 
 seous 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. Mont- 
 rose 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 to 
 morrow." 
 
 So, on the morrow or it might have been the follow 
 ing 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 with- 
 
436 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 out you. ... No; of course you re not going down to the 
 office. Don t be a fool! . . . Heart? No; it is n t your 
 heart. It s nerves. Overwork. That s all. Don t be a 
 ninny. . . . Certainly you 11 be all right. In a few days, if 
 you 11 behave yourself and not act like a blithering sim 
 pleton. . . . 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 11 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 di 
 sheveled, and there was a vague, wild, and incomprehen 
 sible gleam in his eye. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 437 
 
 "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 I 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," pur 
 sued 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. "Con 
 tracts!" 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." 
 
438 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 11 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 col 
 lar. 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 439 
 
 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 some 
 thing 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 un 
 failing fair-mindedness, its patriotism; and as an ad 
 vertising 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 misunder 
 standing as he went. 
 
 "For Heaven s sake, Andy, what does it all mean?" 
 
 The general manager shook his disheveled head. 
 
440 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 im 
 pressing our friends, the enemy, that there s just one way 
 to be saved, and that the only Al, 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 11 
 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 sup, Buddy?" 
 
 "I ve been stallin off Doc Summerfield and a crazy 
 
COMMON CAUSE 441 
 
 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 11 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 sub 
 dued 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 click 
 ers 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 Fen 
 chester Ladies War Reading Club. 
 
 Socially it was a comprehensively representative gath 
 ering, and something more. Pretty much every family 
 whose comings and goings were wont to be entered (by 
 Buddy Higman or some otner 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. 
 
 
COMMON CAUSE 443 
 
 "The Fliess Brewing Company," continued the reader. 
 "Last year five columns; now, none." 
 
 "Hurray for Prohibition! Beer s a German drink any 
 way," 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?" 
 
444 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 , "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 pa 
 pers 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 adver- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 445 
 
 tisements you get that, Jem? what advertisements 
 shall be read each day. That s our White List. Our mem 
 bers deal only with merchants whose loyalty is above sus 
 picion. What would you think of the loyalty of an adver 
 tiser 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. Be 
 sides, I doubt if there s much of any fight left in Embree 
 
446 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 luxuri 
 ously 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 her 
 self 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 at 
 tack 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." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 447 
 
 "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 Alder 
 man Crobin Crooked Crobin, as The Guardian had 
 dubbed him for years. 
 
 "Tree of my constitchoonts assured me this mahrnin 
 voluntarily, ye ondherstand ; quite voluntarily that 
 they are cancelin their contrac s 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 Guard 
 ian if you don t believe it. But I never dodged a good 
 fight. Two stores that I trade with cut down their adver 
 tising 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 sud 
 denly conscious of latent and hitherto unsuspected capa 
 bilities as a public speaker. 
 
448 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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, rixse minores silent," he proclaimed orac 
 ularly, "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 Guard 
 ian. 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 Guard 
 ian 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, per 
 haps, matter of interest to present before this meeting." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 449 
 
 "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 shak- 
 
450 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 ing knees, gazing down at them. Opportunely and sud 
 denly 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 be 
 cause 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 & Com 
 pany. 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 bit 
 ter 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 involun 
 tarily as if to meet Jeremy s, unseen. 
 
 While that very unliterary and decidedly militant or 
 ganization, the Fenchester War Reading Club, was pour- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 451 
 
 ing 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, re 
 mained 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 ad 
 vertisers 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 11 explain how this is n t as crazy from our point of 
 view as you d think. You 11 be elected for we 11 lick 
 Smiling Mart only for the unfinished term. The war 
 will last that long, and while the war lasts internal poll- 
 
452 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 cies 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 11 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 Ital 
 ian hand." 
 
 "It wasn 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 wiogs. The lis 
 tener, 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 sud 
 denly blessed to his soul. 
 
 " Though all the world wax colder, 
 Though all the songs be sung. 
 In dreams doth he " 
 
 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. 
 
454 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 mur 
 mured. 
 
 "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 11 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 in 
 stant you came?" 
 
 "Well, you see, I was intent on other matters," said 
 Jem, looking down into the flushed and adorable face, 
 
COMMON CAUSE 455 
 
 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 happi 
 ness 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 con 
 templated 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 av 
 erage individual that Jeremy had ever encountered. He 
 might have posed as the composite photograph of a con 
 vention of ten thousand Average Citizens. 
 
 "I was asking you: do you know this city," he was say 
 ing 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 re- 
 
456 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 member 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?" 
 
COMMON CAUSE 457 
 
 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 cer 
 tain 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 as 
 semblage 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 con 
 trived 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 
 
458 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 Wash 
 ington 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 459 
 
 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 nth 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 Univer 
 sity" 
 
 "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 I4th you protested to the 
 Orpheum." 
 
 "You been spying on me," said the lady, wrathfully. 
 
 " Certainly. You re a suspicious person. Take my ad 
 vice. Stop talking, or if you must talk, talk like an Ameri 
 can. 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 in 
 dividuals 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 
 
460 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 took the next train for home and a reflective silence. He 
 met with the Reverend Theo Gunst and that fervid theo 
 logian 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 coun 
 seled 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, particu 
 larly 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 unobtru 
 sive 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 
 
COMMON CAUSE 461 
 
 the respectable saloon-keeper, Muller; neither to Gor 
 don 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 congratu 
 lated himself. 
 
 Deutschtum, hitherto hardly bent, was now broken in 
 the State of Centralia. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ITJATRIOTISM had waxed and politics waned with 
 J7 the ebbing of the year 1917, in Centralia. Through 
 the murk and fume of alien treachery, enemy propa 
 ganda, 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 loy 
 alty and right, like Professor Brender. Centralia, thirty 
 years before marked by Deutschtum to be the Little 
 Germany of the New World, was slowly, doggedly estab 
 lishing its birthright of Americanism. 
 
 Poison still lurked in its system. There were whisper 
 ings in dark corners. The German-language press still 
 gave heart-service to the Kaiser s cause in hint and sug 
 gestion and innuendo, while giving lip-service to the cause 
 of the United States in artificial and machine-made edi 
 torials. 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 pa- 
 
COMMON CAUSE 463 
 
 triotic 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 De 
 cember evening of 1917. It was brightly lighted on most 
 evenings. Yet Doc Summerfield, aforetime of a pessimis 
 tic 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 news?" asked Jeremy. 
 
 We ve located Emil Bausch. But not for publication." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "Behind two rows 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." 
 
464 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 "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 dol 
 lar per diem. Martin Dolge is in Mexico." 
 
 "What about Gunst and Klink and the church out 
 fit?" 
 
 "They ve promised to be good. Three of their reli 
 gious 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 anx 
 iously 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 mana 
 ger. "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 
 isn 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 man 
 ner of speech. 
 
COMMON CAUSE 465 
 
 "When?" The chief and the general manager chal 
 lenged 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 have n 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 Wash 
 ington, 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," prom 
 ised Marcia. 
 
 Galpin s eyes wandered slowly about the room and re 
 turned 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 hon 
 estly convinced that without The Guardian to guide it, 
 the Nation would go to immediate destruction." 
 
 "Buddy s little plan turned out well for him," ob 
 served Jem. "Marcia is sending him to Old Central in 
 
466 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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," dis 
 claimed 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 mar 
 ried 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 pro 
 posed to you." 
 
 "Could n t I ! I d have had to, if matters had gone on 
 as they were going." 
 
COMMON CAUSE 467 
 
 "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. 7 
 
 "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 mo 
 ment. "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 cry 
 ing, 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 
 
468 COMMON CAUSE 
 
 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 
 
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