The split between the Germans and The Guardian imperceptibly widened, as time went on, through minor incidents, arguments, and abortive attempts at influence. Seizing upon its opportunity, The Record accepted the whole programme of local German censorship, published nothing that could possibly offend, trimmed its news to the prejudices of the dominant element, and by these methods cut in upon its rival’s local circulation. Verrall, however, reported that as yet there was nothing to worry about, while at the same time earnestly advocating an inoffensive foreign news policy for The Guardian. So 1914 passed into 1915, and the paper held its own. On a mid-April day of 1915 there appeared upon an inner page of The Guardian, an item of such overwhelming importance, that when the editor and owner read it, all other news of the day receded and blurred into a dull, colorless mist of insignificance. The article stated briefly that Miss Marcia Ames, cousin of Miss Letitia Pritchard, of 11 Montgomery Street, who was well known to Fenchester society, not only for her charm and beauty, but also as being the only lady intercollegiate golf-player in the country, had left Berne, whither she had gone after the breaking-out of the war, and was visiting friends in Copenhagen. Her many and admiring friends would be glad to learn, etc., etc., in the best society-reportorial formula. After thoroughly absorbing that paragraph into his inmost being, Jeremy sent for Buddy Higman, who had now taken on the additional duty of marking each day’s paper, from the assignment book, article by article, with the name of the writer of each. “Buddy,” said the editor, “whose is the Ames story?” This being an official query, Buddy made pretense of consulting his marked file. “Higman, sir.” “Oh! You wrote it? Did you have a letter?” “Yes, sir. But I did n’t write it from that. I would n’t make a story out of a letter from Her. That’s personal,” said Buddy, proud in his rigid sense of ethics. “Then where did you get it?” “I figured that like as not Miss Pritchard would get one by the same mail. So I went an’ ast her.” “And she had?” “Yes, sir. I told her I was there for The Guardian an’ was there anything she could give out. An’ she gimme the story.” “Buddy, if you don’t look out you’re going to be a real newspaper man one of these days!” “I wisht I was one now,” returned the boy wistfully. “Do you? What would you do?” “I dunno, exactly. Somethin’.” “You’d need a more definite policy than that, son, if you were in the bad fix of owning a newspaper.” “I’d do somethin’,” persisted the boy. “I’d soak the Germans. Say, Boss, how old do you have to be to get into the National Guard?” “A good deal older than you are. Why all this martial ardor, Buddy?” “That’s what She’d do, if She was a man.” “Did the letter say so?” “Yes. Can a feller--is it ever all right for a feller to show a lady’s letter?”