“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 newcomer 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:
“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 anywhere. Anyhow the Schools belong to the Germans: that’s their specialty. 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 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’ll help people think. Oh, these fools! They can’t see education is what’s going to dish ’em all and bring on the Social Revolution.”
“Don’t you talk against Martin Embree, Nick,” admonished 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?”