“He is n’t a grafter.”
“He’s an associate of grafters.”
“And if he has fought us, he’s fought fair. Also, he’s one hundred per cent American. That’s the big consideration in this matter. But if you won’t stand for him, how about Corliess, of the Lake Belt Line. Cassius Kimball vouches for him.”
Governor Embree stared. “First a water-power baron and then a public-utilities manipulator,” he commented. “You’re chumming up with some queer friends, for a radical, Jem.”
“They’re no friends of mine,” retorted the editor. “You know that. But they’re men we can trust to be right on this war question. However, any one will do, provided he’s big enough, loyal to the bone, and representative.”
“Leave it to me, Jem,” said the Governor with his warmest smile.
Returning to his den for the purpose of preparing an editorial boosting the new project as an accomplished fact, Jeremy saw a light in the business office. Amid ledgers and files of The Guardian sat Andy Galpin, figuring profusely upon sheets of paper.
“Hello, Boss!” was his greeting. “I’m trying to find out where we stand now.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Hard sledding; but we’ll pull through. Always supposing that the dam’ Botches’—thus, now, did the general manager at once anathematize and Americanize that element whose solidity and good citizenship all political parties so warmly and officially endorsed—‘don’t lift too much of our advertising, in return for your few well-chosen remarks upon the hyphen. They’ll be after us hot-foot, sure.” After a pause he added: “They’ve been working on ‘Smiling Mart.’”