“Let it simmer. Take another shot at it when it comes up again.” “Do you want to lose me the election?” “Come out on the other side if you want to, Martin.” “I am for the bill.” “Make a speech and say so, then. We’ll report you in full, and give you a leading editorial courteously regretting that so brilliant and far-seeing and sturdily American a statesman should be in error on this one point.” An answering smile came into Martin Embree’s expressive face. “Go a little light on the sturdy American feature.” “But you are that, are n’t you?” “Of course I am. Just on this bill, though, I don’t care to ram it down the Germans’ throats.” “You’ll never teach me politics, Mart,” sighed the other. “I’m too single-barreled and one-ideaed.” “One-eyed, my boy, one-eyed. Try to see the thing from the other fellow’s point of view.” “Your point of view at present is that I ‘ve gone astray from your good influence. Is that it?” “There are other influences, Jem.” The Senator’s smile was broad and golden as a bar of sunlight. “I hear you were out at the swell Country Club this morning with Magnus Laurens.” “Your information is O.K.” “Did he talk to you about this bill?” “He did.” “Is he against it?” “He is. Refused to sign the memorial.” Embree’s face grew heavy and thoughtful. “Did he so! I wonder if we could get him on record?” “Magnus Laurens is n’t likely to dodge an issue.” “He’s a queer associate for the editor of The Guardian.” “I pick my own associates,” retorted Jeremy shortly. “Or let them pick you. Until they get ready to drop you again. That’s the way with those fellows that have got too much money.” “He isn’t likely to buy me away, Martin,” replied Jeremy, recovering his temper. “I’m not worrying.” The Embree smile was on duty again. “What bothers me is what the Germans will do to you for to-day’s paper.” What the Germans did to Jeremy Robson was, in the terse slang of the day, a plenty. The German press, religious and lay, attacked The Guardian as an exponent of a narrow and blighting Know-Nothingism. One or two small German organizations passed high-sounding resolutions of reprehension. There was a flood of letters and enough “stop-the-paper” orders to afflict the soul of the much-tried Verrall. The most definite response came from Bernard Stockmuller, the jeweler, a generous advertising patron of The Guardian. On the morning following the hearing on the bill he met Jeremy on the street and stopped him. “Vot you got against the Chermans, Mr. Robson?” he demanded truculently. “Not a thing in the world.” “Emil Bausch told alretty how you turned down Prinds Henry’s ledder.” “I did not.” “He says you are a Cherman-hater. If you are a Cher-man-hater,” continued the irate jeweler, overriding the other’s protest, “I guess a Cherman’s money ain’t good enough for you. My advertising you don’d get any more.”