“It will be before the year’s end.”
“As a prophet you don’t qualify, Judge.”
“As a man who knows what is going on, I do. Figure out what the loss of the P.-U. advertising will cost you; the present advertising and the coming campaign. Figure on top of that the other railroad advertising affected by this strike bill of Embree’s. Add what you’re losing every day by your war-policy. Then figure out where you’re going to get your next loan. After that, come and see me. Delighted to have you call at any time. Good-bye.”
“Now, I wonder how much of that is bluff,” Jeremy communed with himself, after his caller had left.
He had not long to wonder. The P.-U. contract was cancelled on the following day: a sure sixteen hundred dollars and a potential twenty-five hundred dollars a year. On top of that every railroad company advertising in The Guardian gave notice of withdrawal.
At least four thousand dollars more, gone. True, Jeremy might have brought suit, but the contracts were so loosely drawn that the issue would have been doubtful. As if by a preconcerted signal, various concerns in Bellair and the other large cities, which had been consistent patrons of The Guardian for years, dropped out. One chum manufacturing company was quite frank as to the reason. So much criticism had poured in from the German farmers, against The Guardian and anyone supporting it, that the concern deemed it wise to remove the cause of offense. Jeremy pondered upon the probability that the P.-U., represented for political reasons in the Deutscher Club by Judge Dana, was working with the hyphenate element to down the paper. He foresaw that he would need all his resources, editorial and financial, to weather the storm. No hope, for the present, of paying off that twenty-thousand-dollar note at the Drovers’ Bank. Upon the heels of the thought, he recalled Dana’s innuendo.
He went at once to the bank and asked for the president, Mr. Warrington. Mr. Warrington was gently regretful, but could not see his way to renew the note. No, not even for half the amount. Money was in great demand. Newspaper security was proverbially unstable. Finally: “One of our directors who is in a position to be informed strongly advises against continuing the loan.” Knowing beforehand what name he should find, Jeremy looked up a list of the directors. There it was, “Montrose Clark, President Fenchester Public Utilities Corporation.”
Pride, an excellent quality in an editor, is no asset to a borrower. Swallowing his, Jeremy made a pilgrimage of mortification to the offices of the P.-U. Corporation, where he presented to Garson, the hand-perfected secretary, his application to see Mr. Montrose Clark. Garson, discreetly and condescendingly smiling from above the carnation in his curvy black coat, said that he would see if it could be arranged. Thereafter Jeremy had leisure to do more swallowing, for he was kept waiting a humiliating and purposeful hour. Admitted, at length, to the presence, he went at once to the point.
“Mr. Clark, it is going to be very inconvenient not to have The Guardian note renewed.”
The president of the P.-U. was no foe to time-saving directness. “It would be very inconvenient for us to have The Guardian misrepresenting the new franchise plan.”
“That’s not a franchise. It’s a Hudson’s Bay Company charter. It would give you the right to do anything from conducting a revival to raising beans on the right of way. It isn’t even constitutional.”
“Lesser legal authorities than yourself venture to dissent,” returned the other, sardonically. “Such as Judge Dana.”
“He’s paid to.”
“As you are paid for your partisanship, in circulation among sensation-seekers, and in the favors of that blatherskite, Embree.”
“The Guardian stands by the Governor in this fight.”
“Go to him for your loan, then.”
“Am I to understand that unless I play the corporation game here, the banks are closed to me?”
“Not from anything I have said.”
“Said: no. It’s pretty plain what you mean. Well, the plant is good security. I can get money from the Chicago banks.”
“Probably not,” was the quiet retort.
It fell upon Jeremy’s consciousness, with chill foreboding, that this might be true. Little though he knew of banking, he guessed that any large, out-of-town banks would take counsel of the local institutions before making a loan. What information would thus be elicited would hardly be favorable. He rose.
“All right, Mr. Clark. If you’re going to fight that way, it can’t be helped. The Guardian isn’t going to back down. We’ll fight you on your own terms, to a finish.” The red face of the local great man grew redder. “With this difference, that we’ll fight fair.” The face turned purple. “I bid you good-day, sir.”
“What do you mean by talking to me about fairness?” burst out the other. “You don’t know what fairness is.”
“Call it patriotism, then. If I were in your position, Mr. Clark, I don’t think I’d care to make a deal with the Deutscher Club committee, to try and ruin a newspaper for daring to be American and not hyphen-American.”
Montrose Clark bolted up out of his chair. “It’s a lie,” he roared.
“It’s the truth. Ask Judge Dana. You’re going to put him up for the Court of Appeals, I hear. Let me suggest that you read his record first. Or, you can read it later in The Guardian.”
“Don’t you threaten your betters, sir.” Jeremy laughed. “Let me tell you before you go,” pursued the exacerbated banker, “that I haven’t forgotten your impertinence in pretending to expect me to trot around to your wretched little newspaper office.”
Instead of annoying, this final flash of pettiness rather cheered Jeremy. After all, he reflected, on his way back, a man so small-souled could not be a very formidable opponent. Montrose Clark, he surmised, was powerful chiefly because nobody had ever boldly challenged his power. Nevertheless, Jeremy did not under-reckon the seriousness of his situation. Money the paper must have, and at once. By gutting his reserve and selling some high-grade stocks in an unfavorable market, he could pay off the note. But, in that case, The Guardian would have to continue on a shoe-string, and with obvious troubles looming ahead. He laid the problem in conference before Andrew Galpin and Max Verrall. Verrall, who for weeks had been prowling about the office with his pale and bony fingers plunged in his brickish hair, ready at any moment, one might infer, to pluck out some desperate handfuls, promptly made the same suggestion that Montrose Clark had proffered, though in a different tone.
“Go to the Governor.”
“How would he have any spare money?” demanded Galpin.
“He can get it easy enough. His name on a note would go with any bank in the Northern Tier.”
“No. That won’t do,” objected Jeremy. “We’re too close politically. That would compromise The Guardian if it were ever known.”
“Let him fix it up for you, then, without his endorsement,” insisted the other. “I’ll go up and see him now.”
Arrangements were quickly completed. Nothing easier, the Governor had said, smiling. He had sent Verrall up to Spencerville with letters. All was concluded that evening. The Spencerville Agricultural Savings Bank would be glad to loan to Mr. Robson, on the security of The Guardian plant, any sum up to twenty-five thousand dollars. Verrall brought back the glad news in the morning.
“Too easy,” grumbled Galpin. “Don’t close yet,” he advised his chief privately. “I’m taking a day off.”
The general manager made a flying trip to Spencerville. On his return, he held a long conference with Jeremy, the upshot of which was that the Governor was warmly thanked for his kind offices, but informed that the loan would not be needed as another arrangement had been made. The other arrangement was a second-mortgage loan on the building for fifteen thousand dollars. This, they hoped, would pull them through.
Andrew Galpin had won his point by a silent exhibit of a snap-shot taken in Spencerville. It showed the obliging bank, with its front window bearing this inscription:
“Landwirtschaftliche Spar-Bank.”
The lettering was German text.
28
Mighty was the clash of political lances, that spring of 1916, in Fenchester. Senate and Assembly alike rang with noble phrases and high sentiments. The mortal agony of a world across the seas, locked in a conflict which should determine the future of civilization, became a quite unimportant matter to those embattled souls on the hill. Let outer and lesser history take its course; it was theirs to decide whether the State of Centralia should or should not thenceforth emancipate itself from the rule of its former and uncrowned dictators. From the front pages of the local press, a committee vote was likely to evict an Italian battle, or an interview with Montrose Clark or Governor Embree take precedence over a peace-hint from Baron Burian. All of which meant, if you read The Record, that the radical and socialistic element were undertaking to slay the fairy-babe, Blanket Franchise,1 and substitute the horrid changeling, Corporation Control; whereas, if you pinned your faith to The Guardian, it indicated the final struggle of an oppressed people to writhe out from beneath the heel of a conscienceless, tyranny of dollars. Amidst all this sound and fury Judge Selden Dana’s candidacy, signifying much but saying little, was pressed. Only one reference had the Judge made to Jeremy’s warning about his past record.
“Remember that libel is criminal as well as civil, my young friend.”
To which Jeremy replied cheerfully: “Let us know when your formal announcement is made, Judge. We’ll give you a good show.”
“Agreed,” said the lawyer. “And I’ll give you some advertising, too. I’ve got to convert some of your deluded followers.”
Already the advertising campaign of the P.-U. was in full swing. Part of it had been offered to The Guardian, in spite of Judge Dana’s earlier threat. That had been partly bluff. The astute politician knew that an element, not otherwise attainable, could be reached with argument through the radical paper. Only with great difficulty had he persuaded Montrose Clark to this view. Said the public utilitarian, reluctantly according his assent:
“I haven’t forgotten that that cub accused us of playing the Germans against his paper. I gave him the lie.”
Judge Dana, who knew far more about the Deutscher Club’s internal operations than he cared to have his principal realize, passed this observation with a non-committal smile.
“I’m going to advertise my own candidacy there,” he pursued. “To get converts you’ve got to go after the other side.”
After having prevailed upon the public utilitarian to adopt his view, Judge Dana was chagrined at having the proffered advertisements rejected by the owner of The Guardian.
“But why?” he demanded, his sleepy eyes lifted to Jeremy’s with a candid and injured expression.
“You want too much. I remember your learned and able argument as to editorial forbearance toward advertisers, Brother Dana.”
The lawyer shifted his ground. “Is it fair to deny the other side a hearing?”
“That’s where you’ve got me,” admitted Jeremy. “It isn’t. But if I take your ads and then go after you editorially, you’ll claim that we are double-crossing you.”
In fact this is precisely what the ingenious Dana had purposed doing, through the lips of his campaign speakers. But he came back promptly with “The ads are offered without stipulations.”
Jeremy considered. Setting aside the money consideration, the mere appearance of the P.-U. advertising in The Guardian would notably add to the paper’s prestige, as an admission that its advertising pull was essential even to a hostile campaign. He very much wanted that advertising. Picking up a pencil he scribbled a sentence, conned it, amended, elided, copied it fair and full and handed it across to the other.
“Provided that every ad carries this footnote,” he said.
Judge Dana read. “You young hellion!” he murmured, and grinned aslant and ruefully. He repeated the words on the paper. “This paid advertising is submitted and accepted without reference to what may appear upon the subject in the news or advertising columns of The Guardian.”
“All right, isn’t it?” asked Jeremy, in the tone of innocence.
“You young hellion!” said the Judge again, almost affectionately, this time. His double-cross accusation was gone glimmering. “I’ll go you, anyway,” he decided. “Do you want the same footnote on my campaign stuff?”
“No. That’ll speak for itself.”
“Let it speak fair. That’s all I ask. And see here, young man. Twenty years ago isn’t a fair basis to judge a man on.”
“It is, if the man hasn’t changed,” Jeremy shot back.
At what was judged to be the psychological moment, the news was permitted to seep into the papers of the State that the eminent jurist Judge Selden Dana was being urged to become a candidate for the vacancy on the Court of Appeals bench. The method was sedate almost to demureness. Immediately there blossomed forth fragrant and colorful editorials, from all corners of the State to form a wreath for the blushing and débutante candidacy. These constituted an enthusiastic and determined public demand. Judge Dana urbanely announced that he would accede to it. The Guardian carried the announcement as news, giving it due prominence. Thereafter, for several days, Judge Dana, Montrose Clark, and a number of other important and interested persons, secured early editions of The Guardian each day with more interest than they would have cared to admit. When the attack did come, it was in such peculiar and indeterminate form that there was a general sigh of relief over a venture foredoomed to fall flat.
On his editorial page, Jeremy had “boxed” a double-column at the top, with what was obviously the outline of a half-tone photographic rectangle. But the interior was a blank. Below it ran the legend:
A CANDIDATE
(Fill in the Picture to Suit Yourself)
This was followed by one of the most biting poems from the grimmest volume of modern American literature, with the attributive line:
From Edgar Lee Masters’ 2 ‘Spoon River Anthology.’
I was attorney for the Q.
And the Indemnity Company which insured
The owners of the mine.
I pulled the wires with judge and jury
And the upper courts, to beat the claims
Of the crippled, the widow and orphan,
And made a fortune thereat.
The bar association sang my praises
In a high-flown resolution
And the floral tributes were many—
But the rats devoured my heart
And a snake made a nest in my skull!
Deeming this a flash-in-the-pan, the Dana partisans reckoned without the terrible power of allusiveness. Ugly memories rose to meet, identify, and confirm the portrait. Day after day, Jeremy reprinted it, without comment. The press in other places took it up, and in an unbelievably brief time it had spread throughout the State, a strangleweed upon the growth of the candidate’s tender young chances. Conferences were hastily called. Ways and means of curbing The Guardian’s destructive activities were projected, canvassed, and dismissed. Apparently there was no way either of “handling” Jeremy Robson, or of uprooting a poem once planted and spreading in the public consciousness. The candidate himself, depressed but philosophical, pointed the way out. A substitute, stodgy but honorable, was found, and the regrettable but timely return of an ancient liver trouble compelled Judge Dana to withdraw from the exigent demands of a political campaign to the seclusion of certain reconstructive hot springs.
What effect this might have upon the legislative fight, no man could foretell. Many thought that the Judge’s candidacy had, in itself, impugned the P.-U. before the public. Certainly the leaders of the Blanket Franchise movement missed his shrewd judgment, for he would never have let them make the first move in a losing fight. In his absence Montrose Clark forced the issue. Embree’s forces lined up against him, and beat the Franchise Bill in the Assembly by a round dozen of votes. Encouraged by this, the other side thrust forward Governor Embree’s Corporation Control Bill
as revised by Professor Rappelje. Now it was time for the public utilities of the State to rally to the last man, for this was a battle to the death. The Guardian did yeoman work in this as in the first action; but the weight of resources was on the other side. On the final vote the public utility interests won by a scant but triumphant margin of three. Thus the whole campaign had resulted in a draw. If Centralia had, on the one hand, repudiated corporation control, on the other it had balked at the radical measure put forth by the Governor. All that ground must be fought over again. The one clear triumph had fallen to The Guardian, in the ousting of Judge Dana.
How the Judge would take his enforced temporary exile was a speculation which sprang into Jeremy Robson’s mind when, the smoke of the corporation battle having cleared away, he met the shrewd jurist, brown, hearty, and with no slightest liverish symptom, in the hotel restaurant. Would he ignore Jeremy’s existence? The younger man gave him credit for being too sound a sport for that. But he rather expected to be held at a distance. Not at all. Dana came up and shook hands.
“Glad to see you looking so well, Judge,” said Jeremy, and meant it.
“Liver isn’t much if you take it in time,” returned the other gravely. Then, “You still wield quite a lively pen, my young friend.”
“As a weapon of defense, it’s useful.”
“Look out that the point doesn’t turn in on you.”
“Warning or threat, Judge?”
“Professional advice. Something I seldom give gratis.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. No ill-will, Judge?”
“Oh, I can take as well as give,” answered Dana, who prided himself on never admitting and never forgetting an injury. “This is no kid-glove game. But I wouldn’t have thought poetry had such a punch in politics. I’ll have to look into that line a little closer.”
As an example of what the Judge could give in return for what he took, there presently descended upon The Guardian a small but lively swarm of libel suits. All were traceable, directly or inferentially, to the office of Dana & Dana, a firm which did not ordinarily cater to this class of business. Four were wholly without merit; two were of the kind that can always be settled for a hundred dollars and counsel fees, and the remaining one hinged upon an unfortunate and ambiguous sentence in the tax-dodging charge against that aged but vigorous lady, Madam Taylor.
Common Cause Page 27
