“If our cause isn’t American, then The Guardian is going to quit it,” retorted Jeremy heatedly. “What’s more, Martin, if I ever had to suspect that when the issue comes you would n’t be for America against—”
“Stop right there!” the other adjured him, laughing. “When you hear me speak an un-American word or see me do an un-American act, it will be time enough to worry. But in the business now on hand we need those German votes, and I’ll do just as much to hold them as you can to drive them away.”
On his return trip to the office, Jeremy encountered Eli Wade, the Boot & Shoe Surgeon, and Nick Milliken. Wade shook hands with him, and looked at his feet.
“You’re standing solid now, Mr. Robson,” he said. “I went on my knees and thanked God when I read your editorial.”
“Not me,” put in Milliken. “That ain’t my God. I don’t worship Mars.”
“Don’t heed him, Mr. Robson. He’ll fight, too, when the time comes.”
“In a capitalistic war? Do I look as soft a mark as that!” retorted the Socialist disdainfully.
“In an American war,” said Eli Wade.
“Don’t you think it! Nine tenths of the people are dead against war. There’s a bill coming up this session that’ll tell the war-birds where they get off.”
“Where did you learn about it?” asked Jeremy.