“But some of us can stand by our colors even if we lose,” said the downright Laurens, and passed on. “Can’t stand defeat,” said Jeremy to himself. But the explanation did not satisfy his inner self. Deep down he was conscious of his first surrender. CHAPTER VIII SIX weeks after Martin Embree’s triumphant election to the governorship, the owner of The Guardian visited the Fenchester Trust Company for the formality of renewing his note. He was referred to President Robert Wanser. More walrus-like than ever, the president of the institution looked this morning as if he might have eaten a fish that did n’t quite agree with him. Jeremy stated his errand. Mr. Wanser ruminated. “Difficulties have arisen,” he presently announced. “What difficulties?” asked Jeremy, startled. “The Trust Company does not see its way to renewing your note at this time, Mr. Robson.” “What’s wrong?” “I have not said that anything is wrong. It is merely a matter of business policy. The loan is a heavy one.” “It is well secured.” “I do not question that.” “The paper has turned the corner. We are making money to-day.” “To-day--you are.” “And we shall make more from now on.” “A(c)h!” observed the banker with his buried guttural. “That is prophecy.” “Based on facts and figures. I can show them to you.” “No need.” Jeremy reflected, with an unpleasant sensation of being spied upon, that probably the local banks knew as much of the financial side of his business as he himself did; perhaps more. “Do you consider The Guardian weaker security than it was?” he inquired. “I have not said so,” replied the impassive walrus. “You have n’t said anything. Do you intend to, or am I wasting my time?” Jeremy arose, looking at the financier with a lively eye. This was not at all what Wanser desired. He intended to read this young sprig of journalism an impressive and costly lesson, after first reducing him to a condition of affliction suitable for the punitive exercise. It annoyed him to find that Jeremy did not reduce; on the contrary, that he was likely to escape uninstructed in that discipline to which he, Wanser, was leading by gradual stages. Forced to a shorter cut he said oracularly: “A newspaper’s best asset is its friends.” The editor’s regard continued intent. “Its heaviest liability is enemies.” Still no response from the beneficiary of these pearls of wisdom. “A newspaper is on the down-grade when it makes unfair and prejudiced attacks upon--upon any class of people.” “Talk plain, Mr. Wanser. You mean the Germans.” The walrus, startled by this abruptness, began to bark. “That’s what I mean. That’s exactly what I mean. You’ve got a grudge against the Germans.” “Not I.” “You have. It proves itself. The Germans are the best citizens in the State.” Jeremy laughed not quite pleasantly. “I was betting myself you’d say that next.” “Say what? I don’t understand you.”