While that very unliterary and decidedly militant organization, the Fenchester War Reading Club, was pouring forward to overwhelm the editor of The Guardian, there gathered in the little side room a hasty and earnest conference of three. Andrew Galpin and Montrose Clark having left it, the lone survivor, Judge Selden Dana, remained to catch Jeremy as he came out.
“Jem,” he said, “you’ve won.”
“Thanks to you people!”
“Thanks to a good fight. Galpin tells me The Fair Dealer backers are through. We’ve scared the local advertisers out of their contracts and the paper can’t hold ’em because of the change of publication date. Verrall made a fatal break when he put a date in that contract. They’re through. But The Fair Dealer is going on.”
“No! Who’s going to back it?”
“Montrose Clark. He’s going to take it over.”
“For his corporation campaign. I see. Then this means another fight of another kind on my hands.”
“He’s going to use it to beat out Martin Embree with his own candidate.”
Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “You know The Guardian can’t and won’t stand for you fellows’ kind of candidate.”
“You’ll stand for this one.”