After the first stunned inaction and uncertainty of surprise, there crept through the German communities of the United States a waif word of strange import.
“Deutschtum is bent, but not broken.”
From mouth to mouth it passed. It was spoken in German clubs and societies. It was proclaimed in lodge-rooms. Presently it appeared in print. Bauer’s alien-hearted Herold und Zeitung published it once and again; first, cautiously, tentatively; the second time, building upon its own impunity, and the incredible tolerance of the stupid Yankees, repeating it as the text of an editorial word of good cheer for struggling Germany—with whom the United States was at war! The Reverend Theo Gunst’s religious weekly spread the rallying cry; and fervent theologians preached it in its own tongue from their pulpits. Soon it had permeated the whole German fabric of Centralia, with its message of aid and comfort to the enemy: “Deutschtum is bent, but not broken!”
And the Deutschtum of Centralia, unbroken and scarcely bent, set about fulfilling its vengeance upon The Guardian and Jeremy Robson.
The first attack was a blast of letters, signed and anonymous. Correspondence enough was daily piled upon the editorial desk of The Guardian to have occupied all of Jeremy’s time had he undertaken to answer it. Most of it was denunciation, protest, warning, threat. Several weak-kneed politicians, followers of “Smiling Mart” Embree’s political fortunes, had written pressingly for appointments, evincing in every line their perturbation lest The Guardian’s course might compromise them in one way or another. One correspondent had contented himself with a spirited but unsigned free-hand drawing of a noose overhanging a skull and crossbones.
In the middle of the heap was a brief and simple note of commendation for The Guardian’s course, from the hardest-worked, most sorely pressed and anxious man in America. It was headed: “The White House.” All but this Jeremy shoveled into the waste-basket; then plunged into his work with renewed spirit. The anonymous threats had cheered him only less than the President’s word. They showed that his work was striking home.
Uncertainty was what Jeremy found hardest to endure in those days. And the local advertising situation seemed to be about fifty-one per cent uncertainty, and the other forty-nine probable loss. Contracts both yearly and half-yearly were renewable on May 1st. There appeared to be an almost universal indisposition on the part of the local stores to commit themselves to any definite figures or estimates in advance. In the case of the German advertisers, or of the few which still maintained rancor against The Guardian because of its independence in business matters, this was quite explicable. But no such reasons applied in the case of the large majority which were holding off. Nothing in the way of enlightenment could be elicited from Verrall. He “did n’t understand it at all.” He’d “done his best.” Business was “very uncertain.” Probably that was it. They were waiting to see the effect of the war. If any one should be in a position to make a guess, Verrall was the man; for he was spending enough of his time among the stores. At least he was certainly not spending it at his desk.
Extra work was thus thrown upon the overworked Galpin. No dependence could be placed upon Jeremy from day to day now. At any hour, the demands of State-wide newspaper organization were likely to call him away from town, and relegate to Galpin all of his duties other than the actual writing of editorials. There were mornings when the general manager would arrive at the office before eight o’clock to find three hours’ work by his chief already completed and on his desk with a note: “Meetings at Fairborn and Rocola to-day and to-morrow. Back Thursday.” To be obliged to handle part of Verrall’s desk job also, in these circumstances, struck the patient and dogged Galpin as excessive. Besides, there were matters in Verrall’s department which puzzled his tired mind.
After one of Jeremy’s flying trips into the country, he returned to find Andrew sitting at Max Verrall’s desk. Instead of responding to his employer’s greeting, the general manager asked abruptly:
“Verrall was a sort of political pet of ‘Smiling Mart’s’ when we got him, was n’t he?”