“So he told me.”
“How came you to be on such close terms with a rank Socialist?” taunted the editor.
“I’ll be on terms with a rattlesnake if he’ll play my game,” replied the lawyer with one of those bursts of frankness wherewith he occasionally favored Jeremy. “Never mind Milliken now. Can you beat out this strike if it comes?”
Suddenly Jeremy looked tired and old.
“I don’t know,” he said lifelessly.
“Is there any danger of The Guardian having to give up in the next month?”
“It’s getting harder sledding all the time,” confessed Jeremy. “The strike might finish us, at that.”
“Publication date of The Fair Dealer is postponed two weeks,” observed the lawyer.
“No! What’s caused that?”
“How should I know? They say part of the machinery has been lost in transit. It was shipped via the Lake Belt Line, for which I happen to be counsel. But I can’t imagine”—he paused, and Jeremy saw a distinct, enlightening flicker of his left eyelid—“I can not imagine what has caused the unfortunate delay! I should think there might be danger of their losing some of their promised advertising!”