“House-to-house canvass, I’m told. That would fit in with our circulation returns. We’re shy about eight hundred right here in town, Boss. They’re claiming fifteen hundred.” “Claims won’t hurt us.” “Don’t you believe they won’t! They’re going to our advertisers. The Record is in on it.” “Naturally. They could use some added advertising space if they could get it away from us.” “They’re getting it; a little. They’ll get more if we hold up to our present rates. The Retailers’ Association had that up in meeting again, and we’ll probably hear one of their mild suggestions about a reduction soon.” “They don’t get it!” said Jeremy angrily. “No. If we let down now, we’ll be on the slide. Besides, we sure need the money. Those libel suits of Dana & Dana are going to cost something. They’re juggling ’em that way.” “Any other cheer-up news to-day, Andy?” “No-o. Nothing special. We’re up against a new paper contract. Verrall’s looking after that. Something’s going on under the surface in the press-room. Maybe the Deutscher Club has a committee at work there, too. I’d like to catch ’em at it--with a press-hammer handy,” he concluded, licking his lips. “It would n’t hurt my feelings at all to have to slaughter a few Botches.” “Well, you may get your chance. Andy, what would you do if war were declared?” “Who? Me? Get out a special, with the American flag all over it, if it was at 3 A.M.” “That is n’t what I mean. What would you do personally?” The general manager’s face fell. “Nothing. I couldn’t. No good.” He stretched his long and powerful arms and gazed at them sorrowfully. “Old lumber, Boss. They would n’t take me.” He touched his injured eye. “No!” exclaimed Jeremy. “That’s tough. Are you sure?” “Tried it. No go.” “Tried it?” returned Jeremy, surprised. “How? When?” “Went to Doc Summerfield. He’s been down on the border. Knows the game. He said no go right away. Not a chance.” “So you did that,” mused Jeremy with growing wonder. “You never peeped to me about it.” “Did n’t want to bother you.” “I’m mighty sorry for you, Andy,” said his chief. “But I’m mighty glad for The Guardian. We need you here. And we’re going to need you worse.” “How’s that?” The other looked up with swift suspicion. “Andy, you could take hold and run The Guardian if--” “Not by a dam’ sight!” shouted Andrew Galpin. “_You_ can’t quit. Not now.” “But if it comes to war--” “_This_ is your war. You’ve got your fighting cut out for you right here. It’s a dandy scrap if there ever was one.” “It is n’t the same.” “Ay-ah! Sure it is n’t. Has n’t got the headline stuff in it. ‘Gallant Young Editor Goes to War.’ Hey? Is that what you’re after?” Jeremy sat silent, disconcerted by the bitterness and anger in his associate’s voice. “You were going, if you could.” Again Andy winced. “That’s different. You could run the paper without me--” “Not for a week!” “You’re saying that to make me feel better about it. Jem, you _can’t_ quit. This is your job.”