“It’s between the lines. You could n’t keep it out with barbed wire. You ’re no reporter,” said Andrew Galpin severely. “What d’ you think you’re writing for The Record? Poetry?” “Look here!” said the bewildered Robson. “You just said it was good and now--” “And now I’m telling you it’s rotten. Punk! _As_ newspaper work, _for_ The Record. Or any other paper hereabouts on this great and glorious German day. Why, it’d spoil the breakfast beer of every good and superior citizen of German birth and extraction that read it.” “Then they are n’t any sort of Americans if they can’t stand that!” “‘Bah’ said Mary’s little lamb to Mary,” observed Mr. Galpin impolitely. “Who said they were Americans? Did you hear much American at that meeting? Did you catch any loud and frenzied cheering for the red, white, and blue, or get your eyesight overcrowded with photographs of the American eagle? Did you mistake the picture of the gent with the wild-boar whiskerines for a new photo of His Excellency, the President of the United States? Did you--” “Oh, cut it!” said the exasperated Robson. “Ay-ah” grunted Galpin, and studied the younger man. “Sore?” he inquired carelessly. “A little, I guess.” “Like to kick a hole in The Record shop, and walk haughtily out through it?” “That’s the way I felt yesterday.” “Want a job on The Guardian?” “Could you get me on?” “I can _take_ you on. Beginning Monday, I’m city editor. I could use one guy that can write.” He glanced again at the killed proof, before folding it to return to its owner. A thought struck the reporter. “Will you print this?” “Lord; no!” “The Guardian would n’t be any more independent or any less timid about this than The Record?” “Not a bit.” “Then why do you advise me to change?” “I don’t.” “But you offered--” “Stop right there while you’re still on the track. I offered. I did n’t advise. If you’re in this business to write what you want, and to hell with the public, I’ve got just one piece of advice for you. Turn millionaire and get a paper of your own.” Jeremy flushed. “I may do it yet. Not the millionaire part, but the other.” “Give me a job, then,” said the other good-humoredly, “as you won’t take one from me. If you should want it, it’s twenty a week to start. Not bad for a town of 70,000, Bo.” “The Record’s promised me better. I guess I’ll stay.” “Ay-ah.” Galpin accepted the decision indifferently. “Well, I guess you’ll get somewhere sometime if you don’t go bucking your head against stone walls. But don’t waste your poetic style on patriotic kids who stand nobly up in galleries for the honor of the flag.” “That kid was a girl.” “So I noticed in your story. Think I know her.” “Do you?” cried the other eagerly. “Only as far as business requires. She’s going to make newspaper copy one of these days.” “How’s that?” “Only girl intercollegiate athlete in America,” replied Galpin in the manner of a headline. “Trying for the golf-team, and from what I hear, liable to make it.”