There rose in Jeremy Robson’s mind the recollection of Farley’s assurance to Embree, “You can rely on us;” which he had not before connected with his slain masterpiece. Now he perceived with indignation that it had been slaughtered to save a German holiday, at the hands of the Honorable Martin Embree.
“He’s the one that put a crimp in my story, is he!”
“Not necessarily,” qualified The Guardian man. “Probably they wouldn’t have run it anyway. But he wanted to be sure. That’s Smiling Martin’s way. You don’t catch him missing many tricks.”
“What’s his interest?”
“Just to smooth things over and keep everything lovely. Rasping up the comfortable Dutchers wouldn’t do anybody any good, according to his figuring, and would only make things unpleasant.”
“A pussyfooter, eh?”
“Don’t you believe it,” returned Galpin. “Martin Embree will fight and fight like the devil when he sees good cause for it. How else do you think he could have got where he is?”
“I don’t know,” retorted the younger man sullenly. “But I don’t see where he comes in to interfere with me.”
“Ask him.”
“I will. Where can I find him?”
“As quick as all that!” commented The Guardian reporter. He noted a hardening of the small muscles at the corner of Robson’s mouth. “Scrappy little feller, ain’t you!”
“Thanks,” said Jeremy Robson, with his sudden, pleasant grin. “I get what you mean. Don’t think I’m going to make a fool of myself. Just the same I will ask him, if you’ll tell me where I can catch him.”
“Round at Trask’s boarding-house, after dinner, most likely. That’s where he lives.”
At Trask’s that evening Jeremy Robson ascended through a clinging aroma of cookery, to a third-floor room, very tiny, very tidy, very much overcrowded with books, pamphlets, a cot, and the spare squareness of the Honorable Marin Embree. The visitor was somewhat surprised at finding a political leader of such prominence so frugally housed. Embree sat at a small table, making notes from a federal report on railroad earnings. He lifted his head and Robson noted a single splash of gray in the brown hair that waved luxuriantly up from the broad forehead. His meetings with the Northern Tier leader had been casual: so he had been the more flattered at Embree’s ready recognition on the previous evening. Now he was struck anew with the soft, almost womanish brilliance of the prominent eyes, and the sense of power in the upper part of the face, sharpening down into shrewdness, in the mouth and chin. A thoroughly attractive face, and more than that, a winning as well as an impressive personality. Embree smiled as he greeted his caller by name, and the reporter suddenly felt all the animus ooze from his purpose. He still wanted to know the why and wherefore of Embree’s action. But his interest in knowing was equally apportioned between himself and his adversary. Characteristically, Jeremy went straight to the point.
“I came to find out why you got The Record to kill my story.”
“Sit down.” The Senator relinquished his chair, motioned his visitor to it and seated himself on the edge of the cot. “Your story? What story was that?”
“Why, about the band playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and Miss — and just two people standing up for it.”
“Was it your story? I’m sorry if it was killed.” Embree’s tone was of the simplest sincerity. “But it really wasn’t my doing. I only suggested to Mr. Farley that a mishandling of the episode might create an unfortunate impression and incidentally reflect upon The Record. You know how sensitive our German-Americans are.”
“It’d be better for us if we American-Americans were a little more sensitive,” blurted Robson.
“You’re wholly right, Mr. Robson. I wish more of us had the spirit of that young lady in the gallery. What a gallant little figure she was; something knightly and valorous about her! And she, all alone.”
“There was Mr. Laurens,” suggested Robson.
“Quite another matter. For political effect only, and not in the best of taste, I thought. If the chairman hadn’t been a numskull he would have called the whole audience to its feet, and the matter would have been a graceful and pleasant and patriotic incident. But Felder is a blunder head. He stopped the music. I would have got the people up, myself, in another two seconds.”
“Senator, you understand the Germans,” said the reporter, reverting to his central interest. “I’d like you to read this and tell me if it would have given offense to any decently loyal German-American.”
Marin Embree took the proofs, and leaned forward under the lamp to read them. What Andrew Galpin had absorbed, almost in a glance, the politician plodded through with exasperating slowness. Impatience gave way to interest in the reporter’s mind, however, when he perceived that his reader was perusing the galley a second time over.
“Well?” he inquired, as Embree raised his head.
The senator’s fine smile enveloped him. “Frankly, it wouldn’t do.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Too much fervor.”
“It’s American fervor.”
“True. But it’s exclusively American. ‘All the rest of you not born Americans, be damned!’ It’s—well—uncharitable.”
The writer’s color deepened. “You mean it’s unfair.”
“Not intentionally. But there are phrases in there that sneer.”
“They could be edited out.”
“Not so easily. I don’t think your writing would be easy to edit, Mr. Robson. It hangs together pretty tight. But, so far as this is concerned, I can plead ‘Not guilty’ to being an accomplice. I’m sure Mr. Farley would never have let it get into print.”
“It was all set up.”
“But not OK’d, I assume. You see, Mr. Robson, one must live among our Germans to understand them. They’re the best people in the world and the highest-minded citizens. Germany isn’t a nation to them. It’s a sentiment. It’s El Dorado. It’s music and poetry and art and literature—and a fairy-land. Lay a profane hand on it, and they’re as sensitive as children, and as sulky. But at heart they’re just as sound Americans as you or I, and in politics they’re always for the right and clean and progressive thing. All they need is to be humored in their harmless and rather silly sentimentalism. You see, I’m talking to you quite frankly.”
“And I appreciate it, Senator.”
“Well, I appreciate having seen this.” Embree tapped the proof with the back of his finger. “Apart from the substance of it, I’m interested. I’m mightily interested.”
Jeremy Robson met his direct intent gaze and waited.
“If I know anything about writing, you can write. There’s stuff in this. It’s a real picture. Perhaps there was a touch of inspiration, too.” His face became sunny again with its conquering smile. “Did you know Miss Ames?”
“Not before the interview with her.” To his annoyance Jeremy Robson felt his face grow hot. Had he written that between the lines, too?
“No? A gallant figure. Young America; the imperishable spirit. Do you think you could write like that—without special inspiration?” he demanded abruptly.
“It’s the best story I’ve done yet. But I can beat it, when I’ve had more experience.”
“Then this town is going to be too small for you.” There was no tone of patronage or flattery in the rich, even voice. “Were you thinking of staying here?”
“Until I learn the ropes. I want to own a pa—”
Jeremy Robson stopped short. Why should he be confiding his ambitions to this stranger, to whom he owed nothing, unless an injury?
“A paper of your own,” concluded Embree. He fell thoughtful. “Ever write any editorials?” he asked presently.
“No.”
“Why don’t you try it?”
“I don’t know. I never thought of it.”
“Think of it now.”
“Reporters aren’t supposed to go outside their own department.”
“Pshaw! A newspaper
is like any other business; it needs all the ability it can command. Now, I believe you could write editorials. And if you care to try, I’ll be glad to speak a word to Mr. Farley.”
“That’s mighty good of you, Senator.”
“Not at all. Gives me a chance to set myself right in your mind,” smiled the other, “for appearing to interfere with your activities. We need a new paper, a new kind of paper here in the capital,” he added after another of his pauses.
Jeremy Robson became uncomfortable. “I guess I’ve been talking through my hat,” he confessed. “It must take a lot of capital to buy a newspaper.”
“Not so much, for a small-city plant.”
“More than I’ll ever see, though.”
“If the right man came to light and proved himself, he might find backing. That’s why I take an interest in the local newspaper situation. It’s only a question of the right man. We’re looking for him.”
“I’d like to be that man,” blurted the caller.
“But are you? That’s the question.” The Senator’s fine eyes twinkled. But his tone was serious enough.
“How should I know, myself? I’ve only had a few months’ experience. Unless you count college journalism.”
“I do,” answered the other unexpectedly. “A client of mine is a trustee at Kirk College. I had the occasion to follow the Kirk-Bell’s attacks on the Board in the intercollegiate football mix-up. You were editing The Bell, I believe.”
“Yes,” admitted Robson. “I guess we were a pretty brash lot.”
“All of that. And you were quite wrong. But you were fighting for what you thought a principle, and I liked the way you fought.” He put up a large, well-kempt hand and pushed a wave of hair back from his forehead. “I’m fighting for a principle here.”
“Political?” said Jeremy Robson.
“Do politics interest you?”
“They make me sick,” returned the reporter vigorously.
“That’s bad. Why?”
“Because of the cheap skates and drumheads I run into whenever I get a legislative job.”
“On behalf of myself and my colleagues, I thank you.”
Jeremy Robson blushed. “Well, you know I don’t mean you, Senator.”
“Possibly some of my associates are shrewder than you give them credit for being. But the State Legislature isn’t politics. It’s only the sieve through which politics pass. If you’re not interested in politics, the newspaper business isn’t your line.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in politics.”
“True enough. You didn’t.” Embree shot one of his reckoning glances at the young fellow. “Well, if you can prove yourself—if you can fight as well as you write and write as hard as you fight—you’re going to be worth keeping an eye on. And I’m going to keep an eye on you for my own reasons.”
“I’ll remember that,” said the reporter, rising, “when I come to try my hand at editorial writing.”
“Sit down. Unless you’ve got some engagement.” Jeremy shook his head. “I want to talk to you a little more.” Another of those pauses, which gave the effect of being filled with considered thinking. “About myself,” finished the Honorable Martin Embree.
The visitor resumed his seat.
“Do you read your own paper?”
“Every word of it, every day.”
“Then you see an occasional editorial about your humble servant.”
“Yes,” Jeremy began to feel uncomfortable. The Record’s editorial attitude toward the Honorable Marin Embree was, to put it mildly, unsympathetic. “I was surprised to see you in the office,” he added bluntly.
“Did you think I was as thin-skinned as that?” Embree’s smile was good-humor itself. “Politically, Farley is my enemy. Personally, we get along pleasantly. In his heart he knows I’m right,” announced the Senator from the Northern Tier, with calm assurance.
“Then why doesn’t he say so?”
“He’s only a hired man.”
“He’s editor-in-chief.”
“By title. The real boss is Clarence Ensign.”
Jeremy stared. “How’s that? I thought Mr. Ensign was nothing but a traveling millionaire.”
“So he is, mostly. But he owns the controlling interest in The Record. Absentee landlordism. It’s worse in a newspaper than in a mill, because a newspaper is supposed to be representative of its public. Ensign’s newspaper represents only the investments which let him sport around the fashionable seaside places in his yacht. Because I’m after some of the big interests that pay his graft-money, The Record is after me. It’s all part of the game.”
As the politician proceeded to amplify on his theme, Jeremy Robson became thoughtful. “See here, Senator,” he said at length, “suppose I should ‘prove up,’ as you say, and should get backing for a paper, I’d be just a hired man for my backers, wouldn’t I?”
“Not if you were strong enough to make yourself the necessary part of the paper. But you’d have to believe in the policies of your backers.”
“I don’t believe I could believe in anything I had to believe in,” returned Jeremy quaintly.
“Correct answer,” approved Embree with emphasis. “No fellow could that’s worth his salt. Anyway, it doesn’t so much matter, provided you believe in something and stick to your belief instead of singing whatever tune you’re paid or ordered to sing.” Again, one of his frequent pauses. “Like The Record and The Guardian.”
“The Guardian, too?”
“Oh, that’s worse. The Record at least represents its own interests, even if they are pretty sordid. The Guardian is anybody’s hired man. Do you know Wymett, the editor?”
“No.”
“He’s a crook.”
“That’s a short and ugly word, Senator.”
“Wymett’s a short and ugly animile. Short on payment of his obligations, and ugly in a fight because you never know who he’s sold to last. Though, at that”–and here the considering pause came in the middle of the statement–“you can be pretty sure that Montrose Clark will have the deciding word.”
“Is that the President of the Public Utilities Corporation?”
“That’s the man. Know him?”
“I’ve reported him at meetings, twice. He didn’t say anything much.”
“He never does, in public or for the public. What did you think of him?”
“I thought he was a pompous little stuffed shirt,” was the reporter’s irreverent opinion.
“He’s pompous enough. But there’s brains behind those piggy eyes of his. We were talking of politics. Well, Montrose Clark is politics. He’s politics, big.”
“I would have thought he was finance, and bluff.”
“Finance, of course. That is politics. Let me give you a one-minute synopsis of the politics of this State. I told you the Legislature was a sieve. Well, the men that feed and shake the sieve are the financial and public utility interests; Montrose Clark representing the traction crowd, Magnus Laurens representing the water-power grabbers, Robert Wanser representing the banks, Sam Corliess representing the lake shipping, Selden Dana representing the railroads, and so on. And our newspapers are mostly just their little yellow dogs, useful to help put over their deals and to fool the people. What we need, and we need it right here in the capital, is a newspaper that will tell the people, not fool them.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
The Senator’s earnest gaze flickered for a moment. “I,” he said, at length. “I’m making this fight pretty near alone so far.”
“What fight is that?”
“The fight to get the control of the State away from the grafters and exploiters and turn it over to the people. And I’m beginning to get the support I need now.”
“From the German crowd?”
The Senator smiled at his caller with an expression almost affectionate. “You wouldn’t take to politics much worse than a duck to water. Yes; from the Germans largely. I’m a reformer, and I’m not ashamed of
the name. The German-Americans are solid for reform and clean government. Government by corporations is never clean. It can’t be. It uses the kind of tools that Wymett is.”
“The Guardian has offered me a job,” observed Jeremy.
“Don’t touch it,” advised the other earnestly. “They’re on the ragged edge. As I told you, Wymett is a crook. One of these days I’m going to tell the State that.”
“Maybe I’ll be there to report it,” said the caller, smiling.
“Maybe you’ll be there (you should work into the legislative end, by the way, for the experience); but you won’t report it. Your paper would print any attack by Wymett on me that suited its purposes. But if I proved Wymett to be a crook and a grafter—not a word in The Record. That’s the way the papers hang together.”
“Well, that’s all right,” returned Jeremy stoutly. “Why shouldn’t newspaper men stand together? Politicians do.”
“You feel that way about it?” The Senator’s tone was colder. “It’s a question of fair play. However”—the sunny smile returned to his face—“we’ve had a pretty straight talk, and I hope I’ve given you something to carry away with you. I’ll admit my object is largely selfish. I’m looking everywhere for the man who can eventually make a newspaper for the public. It won’t come tomorrow, or next day. But it’ll come someday. It’s got to. And don’t forget that editorial writing. Make it mild, at first.”
Before he went to bed that night, Jeremy Robson had sketched out three editorials. For a week he re-wrote and re-cast and polished them. To his keen satisfaction, two of them were accepted. The third, which touched upon the “Star-Spangled Banner” episode, most tactfully and in what the writer deemed to be the broadest and most charitable spirit, was turned down. Farley encouraged him.
“Keep it up, Robson. As soon as you’ve learned our ways you’ll fit into the page.”
3
“Oh, happier he who gains not
The Love some seem to gain:
The joy that custom stains not
Shall still with him remain.
The loveliness that wanes not,
Common Cause Page 5
