STRICKEN, at the first, by the unimaginable vastness of the tragedy which had befallen Europe, the State of Centralia quickly recovered, and lifted up a thousand voices of acclaim. Germany was being splendidly victorious. Nothing could stop the Kaiser’s perfected war-machine; nothing stand against the valor and discipline of the field-gray legions. Triumph was a matter of only a few months; perhaps only a few weeks. France would be crushed; Russia humbled; England, the faithless and foolhardy, penned in her island and slowly starved into submission. Deutschland, Deutschland Über Alles! The loyalest Imperial colony could hardly have rejoiced more openly or fervently than did Centralia, a sovereign State of the United States of America. Slow, still, systematic, scientific propagation of Deutschtum throughout the years now reaped its due reward.

Those there were in the State, and many, who revolted from the brutality of Germany’s war-making. But what voice could they find in Centralia, where politicians and press and pulpit were dominated either by the influence or the fear of organized German sentiment? Let a man but speak a word against Germany’s cause, and the anathema of Deutschtum descended upon him. A highly practical anathema, too; directed to his business affairs and even his social relations. The accusation of prejudice, of Wall Street influence, of British sympathies lay against any who dared question or criticize the “necessary rigor” of German methods. The rape of Belgium was hardly more triumphant than the seduction of Centralia.

Most conspicuous of the few who braved the local power of Deutschtum was Magnus Laurens. Less than a month after the declaration of war he spoke at a Manufacturers’ Association convention dinner in Bellair, the metropolis of the State. “America and the Future” was his topic. It should have been a safe topic; safe and sane, and in the hands of a less obstinately courageous partisan would have been. Indeed, for twenty minutes, it was. Then the speaker, setting back his massive shoulders, and with a significant deepening of his voice, challenged the sense of justice of the gathering, in these words:

“What future can America hope for if the policies of nations are to be dominated by the nation to whom the sacredest pledge is but a scrap of paper when it conflicts with her blood-stained ambitions?”

Gordon Fliess, the head of the great Fliess Breweries, was on his feet instantly. “Order!” he shouted. “The speaker is out of order, Mr. Chairman.”

Echoes came from all parts of the banqueting hall, mingled with cries of dissent. Laurens raised his great voice, and dominated the tumult. It was a reckless speech; it was violent; it was, in parts, unfair. But it raised a voice in Centralia that arraigned the State before a court of honor for self-judgment; a voice too powerful to be silenced, too clear to be ignored.

Yet, instantly, the silencers were at work. Their first attempt was through the toastmaster who laid an arresting hand upon the speaker’s arm, only to be shaken off with a violence which sufficiently warned him. Shouts, hoots, hisses, and cat-calls failed to make any impression on Laurens. Galvanized into action the reporters were taking down every word. But there descended upon them an emergency committee hastily constituted by Fliess, Mark Henkel, of the Henkel Casket Company, and other reliable Germans who not only warned them against publishing the proceedings, but also manned the telephones and issued their directions through owners, advertising managers, and editors regarding the event. Out of six dailies published in Bellair, only The Journal, already under suspicion because of its independence, reported the one sensational and interesting speech of the occasion. That single publication, however, gave the matter currency. The German dailies took it up virulently. The Journal was all but swamped with protests.

Political matters had, on the day when the Laurens speech was published, brought Cassius Kimball, the managing editor and dominant spirit of The Journal, to Fenchester to see Governor Embree, whose fortunes the paper had early backed. After his call, the Governor sent for Robson. They had not seen each other since war began. Martin Embree’s smile was happy as that of a boy.

“Well, Jem,” was his greeting. “We’ve got him this time.”

“Who?”

“Magnus Laurens. Did n’t you see this morning’s Bellair Journal?”

“I’ve just been reading it.”

“That kills Laurens.”

“For what?”

“For everything and anything in this State. Governor—Legislature—dogcatcher; he couldn’t get elected to anything, if this is handled properly.”

“I’m giving his speech in full, in to-night’s paper.”

“That’s it! And a slashing editorial to follow tomorrow. Eh?”

“Slashing which way?”

“Why, into Laurens.”

“Not me,” declared Jeremy with more emphasis than grammar.

“You would n’t back him up!” cried Embree.

“Not in everything. There’s a good deal in that speech, though, that needed to be said; that was right.”

“Jem, are you off your head?”

“Never felt saner in my life.”

“They always say that just before they begin to bite the paper off the walls,” smiled the other. “Come, Jem! Here’s our chance to put Laurens out of the game once and for all. Give me a column and I’ll do it myself.”

“The chance ’ll have to wait.”

“Until when?”

“Until he is n’t as near right as he is on this.”

“Jem,” said the Governor suddenly growing grave, “why is it you’re always pussy-footing when Laurens is in question?”

“I don’t like that word, Martin.”

“Word the question to suit yourself, then.”

“And I don’t like the question. It reminds me that the last time I pussy-footed was on an issue that Laurens met fair and square.”

“And it licked him.”

“There are worse things than being licked.”

“That’s cant,” retorted Embree promptly. “When you’re licked politically, you’re through. You can’t get anything done. Oh, I don’t mean that I’m afraid to fight a losing fight when a big principle is involved. My record shows that, plain enough. But this war is n’t our fight.”

“What’s your view on the war, Mart?”

“It came in the nick of time.”

“For what?”

“For us. For our programme. We can put through pretty much anything we want in the line of reform legislation. As long as the war continues, the German vote will stand by us almost solidly, if only we play fair with them. Even men like Wanser and Fliess and the big business crowd that have always fought us are ready to swing into line, if we don’t rush things too hard. Why, Jem,”—the keen, fine face lighted up with enthusiasm,—“we can make Centralia the banner State of the country in social reform and popular rule.”

“As to rushing things, is n’t this Corporation Control Bill a little rough?”

“It’s meant to be. It’ll be toned down in conference. We made it pretty stiff to throw a scare into the P.-U. crowd. There won’t be anything we can’t do to those fellows, if the war keeps on long enough.”

“What do you really think about the invasion of Belgium, Martin?” asked Jeremy abruptly.

“I don’t like it.”

“I hate the whole business.”

“But I don’t like war, anyway. And this is part of war. I’m going to keep my hands off. Neutrality is our watchword, Jem. The President has given it to us, and I guess in international affairs we can afford to follow the President. Let Magnus Laurens and his gang do the fireworks. They’ll only burn their fingers.”

“Belgium was neutral,” said Jeremy gloomily.

“Let Belgium alone and ’tend to Laurens.”

But this the editor of The Guardian would not do. He ignored the Manufacturers’ Association banquet incident editorially. Publication of the mere report of the Laurens speech, however, stirred up a volume of local displeasure chiefly on the part of the Deutscher Club element, and The Guardian received some pointed letters on the subject of neutrality.

“Neutrality,” commented Andrew Galpin thoughtfully to his chief. “That’s good business for Mart Embree. He can preach neutrality and tickle the Germans at the same time, for our kind of neutrality in Centralia is sure hall-marked ‘Made-in-Germany.’ But how neutral are we going to be?”

“There’s no such thing as ‘how neutral.’”

“Oh, is n’t there! Look here, Boss; what’s practically every paper in this State, on this war, except The Bellair Journal?”

“German. They’re afraid not to be.”

“Suppose a paper is really neutral; gives both sides an equal show. What’ll it look like where all the rest are pro-German? What’d it look like in Germany?”

“I get your point, Andy. It will seem to lean to the Allies by contrast.”

“There you are! Well, what are we going to do?”

“Play fair.”

“Sure. But we can be cagey about it, can’t we?”

“To what extent?”

“Enough to live. I don’t want to see The Guardian mess up in a fight that’s none of our fight and get done up so bad that we can’t help win the fight that is our fight. Let England lick Germany. Our business is to play the game here at home and lick the corporation crowd for legislative control of the State. Don’t you think it’s going to be a cinch, either, just because we’ve elected Mart Embree Governor!”

“Expediency is a queer text for you, Andy.”

“I’m all for expediency as against idiocy.”

“What about butting into the Wade riot?”

“That was for a friend. War, right there under my nose. This other thing is four thousand miles away. And I hope it stays there!”

“Andy,” propounded his chief, “what do you really think of the Governor?”

“‘Smiling Mart’?”

“Is that an answer?”

“Ay-ah. I always wonder about one thing. If you brushed that smile off quick, what ’d be under it?”

“He asked me to sit in his box at the convention meeting of the Federated German Societies.”

“Oh, you got an invitation from the Societies, did you?”

“Yes. Issued by Bausch as secretary.”

“I bet he spit in the ink before he signed it. Going?”

“What do you think?”

“Sure.”

“Expediency again, eh?”

“Ay-ah. There’s no principle in turning down an invitation, even if it will do us some good!”

“All right, Andy. I’ll go,” laughed the editor.

He sat in the Governor’s box at the meeting. There was the same pan-Germanic atmosphere that there had been two years before, but magnified. The Imperial banners were more flamboyant, more triumphant. The verve and swing of “Deutschland, Deutschland Über Alles,” was more martial; it defied the world. The speeches were more fiery, more challenging, more instinct with the fierce pride of a dominant nationalism; and again Jeremy felt resentfully, in the references to the adoptive republic, that tone of bland and intolerable condescension to a lesser people.

The Governor’s box was that which Magnus Laurens had occupied in 1912. Sitting well back in it, Jeremy faced the high balcony. In the far corner a fat, steamy German in a fancy waistcoat roared out “Hochs!” of assent and applause to the speakers. But before Jeremy’s wistful vision he dissolved, giving place to another figure; a figure slender, gallant, boyish, erect. Martin Embree’s touch on his knee recalled Jeremy to realities.

“Wake up, Jem! What ghosts are you seeing?”

“None. Nothing,” muttered Jeremy, and stood while the fervid gathering sang thunderously “Die Wacht am Rhein.”