“Movie stuff,” observed Jeremy Robson with that cynicism which every young reporter considers proper to his profession. “That’s Magnus Laurens,” said his mentor. “Nothing theatrical about Magnus. He’s a reg’lar feller.” The novice was impressed. For Laurens was a name of prestige throughout Centralia. Its owner controlled the water-power of the State and was a growing political figure. “What’s he doing it for?” he inquired. “Because he’s an American, I suppose. Queer reason, ain’t it!” “There’s another, then,” returned Robson, as there arose, from a front row seat on the stage, the strong and graceful figure of Martin Embree, State Senator from the Northern Tier where the Germans make up three fourths of the population. “Trust Smiling Mart to do the tactful thing,” observed Galpin. “He’s the guy that invented popularity, and he’s held the patent ever since.” The Senator was wearing his famous smile which was both a natural ornament and a political asset. He directed it upon Magnus Laurens who did not see it, turned it toward the slim patriot in the gallery who may or may not have observed it, and then carried it close to the ear of the chairman. Snatches of his eager and low-toned persuasion floated down to the listening Robson. “... all up. Can’t... harm. National... after all. If don’t want... leave... me.” The chairman shook his head glumly, broke loose from the smile, spoke a word to the erring orchestra leader. The music stopped. The figure in the balcony sank into the dimness of its background. Magnus Laurens sat down. Senator Embree, smiling and gracious still, returned to his chair. “There’s my story,” said young Jeremy Robson, ever on the lookout for the picturesque. “If I can find that kid,” he added. “Try Magnus Laurens,” suggested his elder. “Maybe he knows him.”