THE pippin of a story never ripened into print. Young Mr. Robson’s formal report of the meeting, a staid bit of journalism, appeared in full. But not a word of that brilliant pen-picture which he had so affectionately worked out. With a flaccid hope that there might have been a mistake somewhere, its author perused the columns of The Record a second time. Nothing! Perhaps, whispered hope, they had held it over. Being of the “sketch” order, it was good at any time. Daring greatly, he invaded the editorial sanctum where the proof-hooks hang. On the second he found his work of art. Upon the margin was rubber-stamped a single word: “Killed.”

Young Jeremy Robson felt as if that lethal monosyllable had been simultaneously imprinted upon his journalistic ambitions. Like salt to the smart of his professional hurt came another thought. What would Miss Marcia Ames think of him when she opened the paper and found nothing of the promised article there? Would there be disappointment in the depths of those disturbing eyes? Or—more probable and intolerable supposition—laughter at the expense of the young cockerel of a reporter who had crowed so confidently about what he was going to do? Happily for the reporter’s immediate future, Mr. Farley had departed. For, were that mild, editorial gentleman still available for the purpose, young Jeremy Robson had straightway bearded him in his lair, demanded an explanation, denounced him as a soggy-souled Philistine, thrown his job in his teeth, and if he had exhibited symptoms of being “snooty” (the word is of young Mr. Robson’s off-duty hours, and he must be responsible therefor), bunged him one in the eye.

At which critical point young Mr. Robson came to and laughed at himself, albeit somewhat ruefully. It was his saving grace that already he had learned to laugh at himself. Many an equally high-spirited youngster has gone to the devil, because he let the devil get in his laugh first.

“Souvenir of a lost masterpiece,” observed Jeremy, folding the galley for accommodation to his pocket. He decided to take his medicine; to say no word of the matter to any one, though he would mightily have liked to know why the story was killed.

His resolution of silence was abandoned as the result of a meeting with Andrew Galpin on the following morning. The Guardian man accosted him:

“Did n’t see your ‘Star-Spangled’ story, Bo.”

“No.”

“What became of it?”

“Killed. What became of yours?”

“Did n’t? write any.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a reporter; that’s why. Why queer your paper by writing American stuff on a German day!”

“Think that’s why my stuff was killed?” asked Robson, impressed.

“Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “What did you think?”

“I thought perhaps it was n’t good enough.”

“Bunk!” said the downright Galpin. “You did n’t think it at all.”

“Well, I did n’t,” admitted his junior, reddening. “I read it over in proof. I think it’s dam’ good.”

“That’s the talk! Got a proof with you?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see.” Galpin leaned against a convenient railing, and proceeded to absorb, rather than read, the two-thirds column, with the practiced swiftness of his craft. “Ayah. You’re right,” he corroborated. “It is dam’ good.”

“But not good enough for The Record.”

“Too good. It’s got too much guts.”

Jeremy Robson repeated the rugged Saxon word in a tone of uncomprehending inquiry.

“Too American,” expounded the other. “Too much ‘This-is-our-country-and-don’t-you-forget-it’ in it.”

“Show me one line where—”

“It’s between the lines. You could n’t keep it out with barbed wire. You ’re no reporter,” said Andrew Galpin severely. “What d’ you think you’re writing for The Record? Poetry?”

“Look here!” said the bewildered Robson. “You just said it was good and now—”

“And now I’m telling you it’s rotten. Punk! As newspaper work, for The Record. Or any other paper hereabouts on this great and glorious German day. Why, it’d spoil the breakfast beer of every good and superior citizen of German birth and extraction that read it.”

“Then they are n’t any sort of Americans if they can’t stand that!”

“‘Bah’ said Mary’s little lamb to Mary,” observed Mr. Galpin impolitely. “Who said they were Americans? Did you hear much American at that meeting? Did you catch any loud and frenzied cheering for the red, white, and blue, or get your eyesight overcrowded with photographs of the American eagle? Did you mistake the picture of the gent with the wild-boar whiskerines for a new photo of His Excellency, the President of the United States? Did you—”

“Oh, cut it!” said the exasperated Robson.

“Ay-ah” grunted Galpin, and studied the younger man. “Sore?” he inquired carelessly.

“A little, I guess.”

“Like to kick a hole in The Record shop, and walk haughtily out through it?”

“That’s the way I felt yesterday.”

“Want a job on The Guardian?”

“Could you get me on?”

“I can take you on. Beginning Monday, I’m city editor. I could use one guy that can write.” He glanced again at the killed proof, before folding it to return to its owner. A thought struck the reporter. “Will you print this?”

“Lord; no!”

“The Guardian would n’t be any more independent or any less timid about this than The Record?”

“Not a bit.”

“Then why do you advise me to change?”

“I don’t.”

“But you offered—”

“Stop right there while you’re still on the track. I offered. I did n’t advise. If you’re in this business to write what you want, and to hell with the public, I’ve got just one piece of advice for you. Turn millionaire and get a paper of your own.”

Jeremy flushed. “I may do it yet. Not the millionaire part, but the other.”

“Give me a job, then,” said the other good-humoredly, “as you won’t take one from me. If you should want it, it’s twenty a week to start. Not bad for a town of 70,000, Bo.”

“The Record’s promised me better. I guess I’ll stay.”

“Ay-ah.” Galpin accepted the decision indifferently. “Well, I guess you’ll get somewhere sometime if you don’t go bucking your head against stone walls. But don’t waste your poetic style on patriotic kids who stand nobly up in galleries for the honor of the flag.”

“That kid was a girl.”

“So I noticed in your story. Think I know her.”

“Do you?” cried the other eagerly.

“Only as far as business requires. She’s going to make newspaper copy one of these days.”

“How’s that?”

“Only girl intercollegiate athlete in America,” replied Galpin in the manner of a headline. “Trying for the golf-team, and from what I hear, liable to make it.”

“At Old Central?” asked Robson, using the local name for the State University of Centralia, on the outskirts of Fenchester.

“Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “She’s a special. Lives down on Montgomery Street with old Miss Pritchard.” His companion made a mental note of it.

“Were n’t you a golf-sharp in Kirk College?”

“Captained the team.”

“Well, if you really want to write a story about Miss Marcia Ames, watch out for the team trials next month. The Record’ll print that all right. Ay-ah,” he added reflectively. “And there’ll be no spiking of the story by Mart Embree, either.”

“Senator Embree?” said Robson, surprised. “Where does he come in?”

“Did n’t happen to see him around The Record office before you went to press yesterday, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Ay-ah. Thought he might ’a’ dropped in. He made a call on The Guardian too.”

“What for?”

“Dove-o’-peace mission. Wanted to make sure that nothing would get in about the ‘Star-Spangled’ business to stir up ill-feeling.”

There rose in Jeremy Robson’s mind the recollection of Farley’s assurance to Embree, “You can rely on us;” which he had not before connected with his slain masterpiece. Now he perceived with indignation that it had been slaughtered to save a German holiday, at the hands of the Honorable Martin Embree.

“He’s the one that put a crimp in my story, is he!”

“Not necessarily,” qualified The Guardian man. “Probably they would n’t have run it anyway. But he wanted to be sure. That’s Smiling Martin’s way. You don’t catch him missing many tricks.”

“What’s his interest?”

“Just to smooth things over and keep everything lovely. Rasping up the comfortable Dutchers would n’t do anybody any good, according to his figuring, and would only make things unpleasant.”

“A pussyfooter, eh?”

“Don’t you believe it,” returned Galpin. “Martin Embree will fight and fight like the devil when he sees good cause for it. How else do you think he could have got where he is?”

“I don’t know,” retorted the younger man sullenly. “But I don’t see where he comes in to interfere with me.”

“Ask him.”

“I will. Where can I find him?”

“As quick as all that!” commented The Guardian reporter. He noted a hardening of the small muscles at the corner of Robson’s mouth. “Scrappy little feller, ain’t you!”

“Thanks,” said Jeremy Robson, with his sudden, pleasant grin. “I get what you mean. Don’t think I’m going to make a fool of myself. Just the same I will ask him, if you’ll tell me where I can catch him.”

“’Round at Trask’s boarding-house, after dinner, most likely. That’s where he lives.”

At Trask’s that evening Jeremy Robson ascended through a clinging aroma of cookery, to a third-floor room, very tiny, very tidy, very much overcrowded with books, pamphlets, a cot, and the spare squareness of the Honorable Martin Embree. The visitor was somewhat surprised at finding a political leader of such prominence so frugally housed. Embree sat at a small table, making notes from a federal report on railroad earnings. He lifted his head and Robson noted a single splash of gray in the brown hair that waved luxuriantly up from the broad forehead. His meetings with the Northern Tier leader had been casual: so he had been the more flattered at Embree’s ready recognition on the previous evening. Now he was struck anew with the soft, almost womanish brilliance of the prominent eyes, and the sense of power in the upper part of the face, sharpening down into shrewdness, in the mouth and chin. A thoroughly attractive face, and more than that, a winning as well as an impressive personality. Embree smiled as he greeted his caller by name, and the reporter suddenly felt all the animus ooze from his purpose. He still wanted to know the why and wherefore of Embree’s action. But his interest in knowing was equally apportioned between himself and his adversary. Characteristically, Jeremy went straight to the point.

“I came to find out why you got The Record to kill my story.”

“Sit down.” The Senator relinquished his chair, motioned his visitor to it, and seated himself on the edge of the cot. “Your story? What story was that?”

“Why, about the band playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and Miss ———— and just two people standing up for it.”

“Was it your story? I’m sorry if it was killed.” Embree’s tone was of the simplest sincerity. “But it really was n’t my doing. I only suggested to Mr. Farley that a mishandling of the episode might create an unfortunate impression and incidentally reflect upon The Record. You know how sensitive our German-Americans are.”

“It’d be better for us if we American-Americans were a little more sensitive,” blurted Robson.

“You’re wholly right, Mr. Robson. I wish more of us had the spirit of that young lady in the gallery. What a gallant little figure she was; something knightly and valorous about her! And she, all alone.”

“There was Mr. Laurens,” suggested Robson.

“Quite another matter. For political effect only, and not in the best of taste, I thought. If the chairman had n’t been a numskull he would have called the whole audience to its feet, and the matter would have been a graceful and pleasant and patriotic incident. But Felder is a blunderhead. He stopped the music. I would have got the people up, myself, in another two seconds.”

“Senator, you understand the Germans,” said the reporter, reverting to his central interest. “I’d like you to read this and tell me if it would have given offense to any decently loyal German-American.”

Martin Embree took the proofs, and leaned forward under the lamp to read them. What Andrew Galpin had absorbed, almost in a glance, the politician plodded through with exasperating slowness. Impatience gave way to interest in the reporter’s mind, however, when he perceived that his reader was perusing the galley a second time over.

“Well?” he inquired, as Embree raised his head.

The Senator’s fine smile enveloped him. “Frankly, it would n’t do.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Too much fervor.”

“It’s American fervor.”

“True. But it’s exclusively American. ‘All the rest of you not born Americans, be damned!’ 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.”

“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 imperishable 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.”

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 confiding 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 presently.

“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’ll 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 interfere 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 through 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 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 journalism.”

“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 intercollegiate football mix-up. You were editing The Bell, I believe.”

“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 forehead. “I’m fighting for a principle here.”

“Political?” said Jeremy Robson.

“Do politics interest you?”

“They make me sick,” returned the reporter vigorously.

“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 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 humble 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?” Embree’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.

“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 supposed to be representative of its public. Ensign’s newspaper 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 something and stick to your belief instead of singing whatever tune you’re paid or ordered to sing.” Again, one of his frequent pauses. “Like The Record and The Guardian.”

“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 Wymett, the editor?”

“No.”

“He’s a crook.”

“That’s a short and ugly word, Senator.”

“Wymett’s a short and ugly animile. Short on payment 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 Corporation?”

“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 interests; Montrose Clark representing the traction crowd, Magnus Laurens representing the water-power grabbers, Robert Wanser representing the banks, Sam Corliess representing the lake shipping, Selden Dana representing 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 almost 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.

“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? Politicians 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’ll admit my object is largely selfish. I’m looking everywhere for the man who can eventually make a newspaper for the public. It won’t come tomorrow, or next day. But it’ll 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’ll fit into the page.”