“I’ll remember that,” said the reporter, rising, “when I come to try my hand at editorial writing.” “Sit down. Unless you’ve got some engagement.” Jeremy shook his head. “I want to talk to you a little more.” Another of those pauses, which gave the effect of being filled with considered thinking. “About myself,” finished the Honorable Martin Embree. The visitor resumed his seat. “Do you read your own paper?” “Every word of it, every day.” “Then you see an occasional editorial about your humble servant.” “Yes.” Jeremy began to feel uncomfortable. The Record’s editorial attitude toward the Honorable Martin Embree was, to put it mildly, unsympathetic. “I was surprised to see you in the office,” he added bluntly. “Did you think I was as thin-skinned as that?” Em-bree’s smile was good-humor itself. “Politically, Farley is my enemy. Personally, we get along pleasantly. In his heart he knows I’m right,” announced the Senator from the Northern Tier, with calm assurance. “Then why does n’t he say so?” “He’s only a hired man.” “He’s editor-in-chief.” “By title. The real boss is Clarence Ensign.” Jeremy stared. “How’s that? I thought Mr. Ensign was nothing but a traveling millionaire.” “So he is, mostly. But he owns the controlling interest in The Record. Absentee landlordism. It’s worse in a newspaper than in a mill, because a newspaper is supposed to be representative of its public. Ensign’s newspaper represents only the investments which let him sport around the fashionable seaside places in his yacht. Because I’m after some of the big interests that pay his graft-money, The Record is after me. It’s all part of the game.” As the politician proceeded to amplify on his theme, Jeremy Robson became thoughtful. “See here, Senator,” he said at length, “suppose I should ‘prove up,’ as you say, and should get backing for a paper, I’d be just a hired man for my backers, would n’t I?” “Not if you were strong enough to make yourself the necessary part of the paper. But you’d have to believe in the policies of your backers.” “I don’t believe I could believe in anything I had to believe in,” returned Jeremy quaintly. “Correct answer,” approved Embree with emphasis. “No fellow could that’s worth his salt. Anyway, it does n’t so much matter, provided you believe in something and stick to your belief instead of singing whatever tune you’re paid or ordered to sing.” Again, one of his frequent pauses. “Like The Record and The Guardian.” “The Guardian, too?” “Oh, that’s worse. The Record at least represents its own interests, even if they are pretty sordid. The Guardian is anybody’s hired man. Do you know Wymett, the editor?” “No.” “He’s a crook.” “That’s a short and ugly word, Senator.”