“I like his nerve, anyway.”
“It’s better than his style,” commented the other, grinning. “If he’s going to stand to attention, why does n’t he take off his hat?”
“Here’s another one,” said The Guardian reporter, turning toward the lower tier box on their right.
An iron-gray, square-jawed man with shrewd and pleasant eyes, who, in his obviously expensive but easy-fitting suit of homespun, gave the impression of physical power, was shouldering his way to the rail. A small American flag occupied a humble position in a group of insignia ornamenting the next box. The man plucked it out and made as if he would raise it above his head, then changed his mind. Holding it stiffly in front of him he turned to face the distant figure, and so stood, grim, awkward, solid, while the chosen voice of the Nation’s patriotism sang to unheeding ears below.
“Movie stuff,” observed Jeremy Robson with that cynicism which every young reporter considers proper to his profession.
“That’s Magnus Laurens,” said his mentor. “Nothing theatrical about Magnus. He’s a reg’lar feller.”
The novice was impressed. For Laurens was a name of prestige throughout Centralia. Its owner controlled the water-power of the State and was a growing political figure.
“What’s he doing it for?” he inquired.
“Because he’s an American, I suppose. Queer reason, ain’t it!”
“There’s another, then,” returned Robson, as there arose, from a front row seat on the stage, the strong and graceful figure of Martin Embree, State Senator from the Northern Tier where the Germans make up three fourths of the population.