Transferred into typewriting at the hands (two-fingered at the exercise) of Mr. Burton Higman, the editorial had gone upstairs. It returned, galley-proof, in the hands of Nicholas Milliken. “This yours?” he asked of the editor. “Yes. Why?” “Did n’t carry any O.K. For to-day?” “Yes.” Milliken lingered. “Well?” said Jeremy sharply. “Pretty hot stuff,” observed the Socialist. “It’ll start something.” “It probably will.” “Somebody pulled a couple of extra proofs on me.” “Somebody? Who?” “Dunno. Only I don’t want to be held responsible if they get out of the office in advance.” The proofs were already out of the office and on their way to the Deutscher Club, a fact concerning which Mr. Milliken probably had his shrewd suspicions, had he cared to voice them. But the hyphen editorial was not destined to burst upon the German-American world of Fenchester that day. For, at noon, Max Verrall entered the editor’s den, his brisk eyes alight. “Did the Governor get you?” he asked. “No. What’s up?” “State Council of Defense. He’s going to put it through. I’ve just seen him.” “Good business!” “Better call him up. He’ll tell you more.” Jeremy did not get the Governor, but his private secretary verified Verrall’s report. “Yes. I’ve been trying to get you. The preliminary conference is set for to-morrow at ten.” “Short notice,” said Jeremy, surprised. “Call’s gone out over the wires. Will you come to the Capitol this evening to talk it over with the Governor?” Jeremy assented. He imparted the good news to Andrew Galpin, whom he had sent for to run over the hyphen editorial. “The State Council of Defense is going through, Andy.” “‘Smiling Mart’ has climbed off the fence, has he? Or did we push him off?” Jeremy frowned. “Nobody pushes Martin Embree.” “All right, Boss,” conceded the other good-humoredly. “He can certainly push himself ably when the occasion arises. I reckon this is part of his push for the senator-ship.” “Anyway, Andy, you’ll admit that this State Council move proves where he stands on Americanism.” “I’ll admit that,” said the cautious Galpin, “when I see it--in The Guardian.” “He’ll be all right,” said his supporter with conviction, “now that the issue is getting clear.” “What about your editorial, now?” “Well, what about it?” “Had n’t that better wait a day or two? You don’t want to muddy up the water unnecessarily. If the State Council move is on the level, your hyphen stuff will only make hard sledding for Embree.” “That’s right, too. I’ll put it on the hold-over hook.” Arriving at the Executive Office at seven-thirty, Jeremy was conscious of effort in the Embreean smile, conscientiously directed upon him. That fine wave of the gubernatorial hair, too, so suggestive of uplift in its stressful rise from the broad, even forehead, seemed to droop a bit. Smiling Mart Embree looked like a man who has passed the night in a sleepless torment of the mind. “Any late news on the wires?” he asked anxiously.