“What future can America hope for if the policies of nations are to be dominated by the nation to whom the sacredest pledge is but a scrap of paper when it conflicts with her blood-stained ambitions?” Gordon Fliess, the head of the great Fliess Breweries, was on his feet instantly. “Order!” he shouted. “The speaker is out of order, Mr. Chairman.” Echoes came from all parts of the banqueting hall, mingled with cries of dissent. Laurens raised his great voice, and dominated the tumult. It was a reckless speech; it was violent; it was, in parts, unfair. But it raised a voice in Centralia that arraigned the State before a court of honor for self-judgment; a voice too powerful to be silenced, too clear to be ignored. Yet, instantly, the silencers were at work. Their first attempt was through the toastmaster who laid an arresting hand upon the speaker’s arm, only to be shaken off with a violence which sufficiently warned him. Shouts, hoots, hisses, and cat-calls failed to make any impression on Laurens. Galvanized into action the reporters were taking down every word. But there descended upon them an emergency committee hastily constituted by Fliess, Mark Henkel, of the Henkel Casket Company, and other reliable Germans who not only warned them against publishing the proceedings, but also manned the telephones and issued their directions through owners, advertising managers, and editors regarding the event. Out of six dailies published in Bellair, only The Journal, already under suspicion because of its independence, reported the one sensational and interesting speech of the occasion. That single publication, however, gave the matter currency. The German dailies took it up virulently. The Journal was all but swamped with protests. Political matters had, on the day when the Laurens speech was published, brought Cassius Kimball, the managing editor and dominant spirit of The Journal, to Fenchester to see Governor Embree, whose fortunes the paper had early backed. After his call, the Governor sent for Robson. They had not seen each other since war began. Martin Embree’s smile was happy as that of a boy. “Well, Jem,” was his greeting. “We’ve got him this time.” “Who?” “Magnus Laurens. Did n’t you see this morning’s Bellair Journal?” “I’ve just been reading it.” “That kills Laurens.” “For what?” “For everything and anything in this State. Governor--Legislature--dogcatcher; he couldn’t get elected to anything, if this is handled properly.” “I’m giving his speech in full, in to-night’s paper.” “That’s it! And a slashing editorial to follow tomorrow. Eh?” “Slashing which way?” “Why, into Laurens.” “Not me,” declared Jeremy with more emphasis than grammar. “You would n’t back him up!” cried Embree. “Not in everything. There’s a good deal in that speech, though, that needed to be said; that was _right_.” “Jem, are you off your head?” “Never felt saner in my life.”