“All right, Boss,” conceded the other good-humoredly. “He can certainly push himself ably when the occasion arises. I reckon this is part of his push for the senator-ship.”
“Anyway, Andy, you’ll admit that this State Council move proves where he stands on Americanism.”
“I’ll admit that,” said the cautious Galpin, “when I see it—in The Guardian.”
“He’ll be all right,” said his supporter with conviction, “now that the issue is getting clear.”
“What about your editorial, now?”
“Well, what about it?”
“Had n’t that better wait a day or two? You don’t want to muddy up the water unnecessarily. If the State Council move is on the level, your hyphen stuff will only make hard sledding for Embree.”
“That’s right, too. I’ll put it on the hold-over hook.” Arriving at the Executive Office at seven-thirty, Jeremy was conscious of effort in the Embreean smile, conscientiously directed upon him. That fine wave of the gubernatorial hair, too, so suggestive of uplift in its stressful rise from the broad, even forehead, seemed to droop a bit. Smiling Mart Embree looked like a man who has passed the night in a sleepless torment of the mind. “Any late news on the wires?” he asked anxiously.
“A little. All of one kind.”
“Pointing toward war?”