“That’s a perfectly fair bill,” defended the visitor. “But for The Guardian, it would have gone through before. Now--” “Now we’ll kill it again if it shows its crooked head. Tell Montrose Clark that from me. And tell him that I won’t need any loan from the Drovers’ Bank to do it.” “Very well,” sighed the lawyer. “No hard feelings, my boy. Business is business.” Reporting to his chief, Dana stated: “He won’t dicker.” “As I told you,” replied Montrose Clark in pompous self-appreciation of his own prophecy. “Well, no harm in trying.... We can pass the Blanket Franchise Bill after The Guardian is dead.” “How long can it last?” “Not three months, according to what I can gather.” The president of the Fenchester Public Utilities Corporation began to puff up and grow red in the face and squirm in his seat. Finally it came out explosively: “Dana, I don’t want to pass the damned bill--at that price.” “Neither do I.” “You know, I--I almost like that young fool.” “So do I.” “Well, what are we going to do?” “Pull him through whether he wants our help or not. We can fight him for the Franchise Bill after the war.” “Go to it!” returned the president of the Fenchester Public Utilities Company with unwonted energy and slang. As the first fruits of that confabulation between two of Jeremy Robson’s oldest enemies The Guardian received on the following day a contract from the P.-U. for advertising space amounting to sixteen hundred dollars a year. Jeremy reckoned that with grim satisfaction, as giving the paper a few days more of life. On the following morning there came a far more important help in the form of ‘a brief and characteristic note from Magnus Laurens, the pith of which was in these sentences: _I hope you will accept my sincere apologies. Enclosed find contract with the Oak Lodge Pulp Company, which, I have reason to believe, was made under a misapprehension as to quality of paper. Kindly make out new contract at three cents and three quarters if acceptable._ Andy Galpin’s philosophical estimate--“Every bit as real an American, when it comes to the pinch”--reverted to Jeremy’s mind. A sudden humility tempered his spirit. He felt that The Guardian was a pretty big thing and he a pretty small one. Well, in what time remained he would fight with a new vigor and for a broader ideal. It would not be long. Magnus Laurens’s generosity meant only a respite; perhaps two or three months extra of fighting the good fight. In the owner’s heart was no self-deception as to the inevitable outcome. Meantime the paper might yet beat Martin Embree and save Centralia from the disgrace of sending the chosen prophet of Deutschtum to the United States Senate.