The Flag of Our Country. It stands alone.
Two beribboned, bespangled, bebadged German Federates passed near them, and paused.
“That is the man who refused to decorate with our colors,” said one, in German.
“Pfui!” said the second contemptuously, “’s machts nichts. Matters noding!”
Jeremy Robson took off his hat and made his adieus. “You’ve given me something to think about,” he said, apportioning his acknowledgment impartially, though his eyes were on the strange and alluring face of Marcia Ames. “Good-bye, and thank you.”
“If you’re grateful for being made to think,” returned Magnus Laurens, good-humoredly, “there’s hope for you as a reporter yet. That’s a good-looking boy,” he added to his companion, as the young man turned away.
“Good-looking?” she repeated, with a rising inflection that controverted the opinion.
“Oh, not a young Adonis. But there’s something under that thatch of hair of his or I’m no guesser. Grit, and purpose, and, I think, honesty. I hope he does n’t make hash of us in his paper.”
Allowing himself an hour and a half, the reporter turned out in that time what he firmly believed to be “a pippin of a story.” After delivering the final page to an approving copy-reader he washed up, got his coat and hat and started for the door. In the hallway he came upon Senator Martin Embree, just closing a conversation with Farley, the editor-in-chief.
“No politics in this, you know,” the Senator was saying, in his sunny voice.