The other assented, and took his leave. By a roundabout course he made his way to The Record office, and there consulted Farley. The result of the conference was that A. M. Wymett contributed a trenchant and bitingly worded editorial to that evening’s issue of The Record entitled “Lip and Pen Patriotism.” It was conceived in the old and waning style of personal and allusive journalism, and contained pointed references to young men of means and sound physique who preferred staying at home and preaching the patriotic duty of others, to shouldering a gun and doing their own part. The shrewd, tired eyes had seen Jeremy wince under the sting of the war-query. Their owner judged that a little impetus might decide the matter. And Farley, for reasons of his own and The Record’s, was only too glad to lend a hand toward getting Jeremy out of the way. He knew, what Jeremy only suspected, that Wymett in nominal control of The Guardian meant Embree in actual control, and hence two papers instead of three in Fenchester, as The Fair Dealer would then be dropped. Had the writer of the editorial been present to mark the effect upon its unnamed subject, he would have been gratified. Jeremy cursed fervently. He then summoned Andrew Galpin. “Andy, I’m going into the army.” “Ay-ah?” “What do you think?” “Going to sell the paper?” “Might as well sell it as wreck it.” “Ay-ah?” “For God’s sake, Andy,” broke out his chief; “can’t you say anything but ‘Ay-ah’?” “I’ve said my say once.” “That was before we were surely down and out.” “I have n’t changed my mind.” “I’m sick of a losing fight.” “Good thing there’s folks in the world that aren’t. The French, for instance.” Jeremy cursed again, wildly and extravagantly. “You’re trying to make me out yellow!” “Boss, your nerves are n’t all they ought to be. Why don’t you drop in on your doc?” “I’m going right from here to Doc Summerfield’s.” “Ay-ah? You _are_ feeling shaky, eh?” “No. I’m not. But I want to be sure that I’ll get through all right on the physical examination.” “Ay-ah. I guess you’ll do--physically.” Andrew Galpin turned and left. His head was hanging. He looked like a man ashamed. Jeremy knew for whom he was ashamed. Again he cursed, and this time, himself. All the catchwords in the vocabulary of patriotism could not now exorcise that inner feeling of surrender, of desertion. A figure emerged from a forgotten corner. It was Buddy Higman. “I heard you,” said the boy in a lifeless voice. “Are you goin’ to quit?” The final word flicked Jeremy on the raw. “I’m going to fight.” “What’s goin’ to become of us?” said Buddy simply. Jeremy stared at him without consciously seeing the open, freckled face of the boy. What he saw was the letter of Marcia Ames in which she had committed Buddy to his care. “Become of you, Buddy?” he said. “Of us. The paper. It won’t be us any more with you out of it.” “No. It won’t be,” sighed Jeremy. “But I’ll arrange to have you kept on.”