“I apologize to this honorable body,” he said with quiet courtesy, “and to the State of Centralia as represented by its chief executive. And, as a question of privilege preliminary to my resignation, I ask whether the list as read is to stand.” “I will not submit to be bulldozed or intimidated,” declared the Governor huskily. “The list stands?” persisted the other. “It stands, subject to the approval of this body.” “Doubtless you can carry it,” conceded the objector, ranging the assemblage with his clear and contemptuous glance. “Vote,” piped up an uncertain and tentative voice. “But you would be well advised not to make the attempt.” Martin Embree conceived that the proper course now was to ignore this unforeseen assailant of his plan. “I will proceed with the reading,” he announced. “I beg your pardon,” said the relentless and polite voice. “One moment. You will have until this evening to withdraw your list.” “And vot then? Vot then?” broke in Emil Bausch, thrusting upward a truculent face. “Do you want civil war in this State?” challenged Fliess. “If necessary,” retorted Rappelje, and stared him down with a steady and intolerable eye. He turned again to the Governor. “Unless that list is withdrawn before night, Martin Embree,” said he solemnly, “so help me the God of my country, I will raise the University and hang you to the highest tree on the campus.” [Illustration: 0351] He made a stiff, formal, absurd little jerk of a bow and marched from the room. “By gosh! He’s the boy could do it,” confirmed Milliken in an unexpectedly cheerful chirp. “Finish the reading,” said somebody weakly. “Vote! Vote!” came a mutter of several voices. No vote was taken. Under the corroding acid of the professor’s passion the fabric of that meeting’s purpose dissolved. The session did not adjourn. It disintegrated. Jeremy Robson stood irresolute as the groups edged past him. “Congratulations, Mr. Vice-Chairman,” purred Montrose Clark. It was the first time since the interview about the note that he had conceded the fact of the editor’s existence. “Bad politics, my boy! Bad politics!” said Judge Dana, his head wagging with reprehension, but a malicious twinkle in his somnolent eyes. Cassius Kimball set a friendly hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “Pretty shrewd of old Martin, eh?” he observed. “But we can square that, among us. Let me know what you want The Journal to do.” Jeremy nodded his gratitude, but did not move. Laurens was the man he wanted to see, to set himself right before. Moreover, with him as leader a counter-stroke could be planned to bring Embree to his senses. The viking form strode toward him. “Mr. Laurens,” began Jeremy, “I want--” “Stand out of my way!” warned the magnate, and swerving not an inch from his stride, he jostled the other aside. But for Kimball’s quick interposition Jeremy’s fury would have launched him upon the insulter. “Steady!” soothed that experienced diplomat. “You come outside with me, and cool off.”