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 befooled the public, and in thus doing lulled themselves to a false security, they were now in a parlous state, not daring to affront a nation in arms, fearful of the unmeasured power of their alien supporters, afraid alike of truth, falsehood, 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 surprise, 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 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 editorial 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 anonymous. 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” Embree’s political fortunes, had written pressingly for appointments, evincing in every line their perturbation lest The Guardian’s course might compromise them in one way or another. One correspondent had contented himself 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 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 endure 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 appeared 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 German advertisers, or of the few which still maintained rancor 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 uncertain.” 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 certainly not spending it at his desk.

Extra work was thus thrown upon the overworked Galpin. 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 before eight o’clock to find three hours’ work by his chief already completed and on his desk with a note: “Meetings at Fairborn and Rocola to-day and to-morrow. Back Thursday.” To be obliged to handle part of Verrall’s desk job also, in these circumstances, struck the patient and dogged Galpin as excessive. Besides, there were matters 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 general 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, is n’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.”

“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 offered 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’ll 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 ums?” he inquired solicitously.

“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 department 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, 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 nothing 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! Personally, 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 praiseworthy, 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 German 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?”

“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 comforted 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 afford 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 anticipative 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-Allick to rough up decent folks’ feelings whenever you want to.”

“There was nothing in what I wrote to offend any good American.”

“I guess you ain’t the only good American in Fenchester! 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 decrease in your trade.”

Ahrens flushed.

“Not in our trade,” he asserted; “in yours. The Guardian’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’s all.”

“I see. This is our punishment, this half-space allowance.”

“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-contained 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?”

“Can’t you tell from the sniveling, canting, hypocritical 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 Fenchester. 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 morning 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’ll die game.”

“It makes me sick!” growled Galpin. “Oh, I ain’t kicking, Boss! Only it’ll be a tough game if, after all our scrapping, right and wrong—and we haven’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.”

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 carefully.”

“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 employer—”

“Don’t bleat like a goat, Andy.”

“—you can take your advice and go to hell with it. I stick!”