“Sit down.” The Senator relinquished his chair, motioned his visitor to it, and seated himself on the edge of the cot. “Your story? What story was that?”
“Why, about the band playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and Miss ———— and just two people standing up for it.”
“Was it your story? I’m sorry if it was killed.” Embree’s tone was of the simplest sincerity. “But it really was n’t my doing. I only suggested to Mr. Farley that a mishandling of the episode might create an unfortunate impression and incidentally reflect upon The Record. You know how sensitive our German-Americans are.”
“It’d be better for us if we American-Americans were a little more sensitive,” blurted Robson.
“You’re wholly right, Mr. Robson. I wish more of us had the spirit of that young lady in the gallery. What a gallant little figure she was; something knightly and valorous about her! And she, all alone.”
“There was Mr. Laurens,” suggested Robson.
“Quite another matter. For political effect only, and not in the best of taste, I thought. If the chairman had n’t been a numskull he would have called the whole audience to its feet, and the matter would have been a graceful and pleasant and patriotic incident. But Felder is a blunderhead. He stopped the music. I would have got the people up, myself, in another two seconds.”
“Senator, you understand the Germans,” said the reporter, reverting to his central interest. “I’d like you to read this and tell me if it would have given offense to any decently loyal German-American.”
Martin Embree took the proofs, and leaned forward under the lamp to read them. What Andrew Galpin had absorbed, almost in a glance, the politician plodded through with exasperating slowness. Impatience gave way to interest in the reporter’s mind, however, when he perceived that his reader was perusing the galley a second time over.
“Well?” he inquired, as Embree raised his head.