"Will you undertake to make it right with Mrs. March if I'm killed and she and the children are not killed with me?"
"Well, it would be difficult. I wonder how it would do to get Kendricks to do the literary part?"
"I've no doubt he'd jump at the chance. I've yet to see the form of literature that Kendricks wouldn't lay down his life for."
"Say!" March perceived that Fulkerson was about to vent another inspiration, and smiled patiently. "Look here! What's the reason we couldn't get one of the strikers to write it up for us?"
"Might have a symposium of strikers and presidents," March suggested.
"No; I'm in earnest. They say some of those fellows—especially the foreigners—are educated men. I know one fellow—a Bohemian—that used to edit a Bohemian newspaper here. He could write it out in his kind of Dutch, and we could get Lindau to translate it."
"I guess not," said March, dryly.
"Why not? He'd do it for the cause, wouldn't he? Suppose you put it up on him the next time you see him."
"I don't see Lindau any more," said March. He added, "I guess he's renounced me along with Mr. Dryfoos's money."
"Pshaw! You don't mean he hasn't been round since?"