“Did n’t even know the little game they were playing, did you, young feller? Well, you see, Eli, here, he’s a radical as far as his intelligence will carry him. That’s my influence on him. The bosses don’t want radicals on the School Board. They don’t want ’em anywhere. Anyhow the Schools belong to the Germans: that’s their specialty. So, Eli being against the cultural-extension-of-German plan, they stir up the Germans against him, and then sick the newspapers onto him, and when they sick, _you_ do the yapping. That’s all there is to _that_. Except that Smiling Mart, the damned hypocrite, steps up and eases Eli out to help put in another German and clinch his hold on a few more German votes. Not that it ain’t all right, at that; if they’ll put in a good radical. The cultural extension’s good enough, like anything else that’ll help people _think_. Oh, these fools! They can’t see education is what’s going to dish ’em all and bring on the Social Revolution.” “Don’t you talk against Martin Embree, Nick,” admonished the proprietor. “There ain’t a straighter set pair o’ feet in the State of Centralia.” “All right. Then I’m a goat; look at my hoofs!” grinned the Socialist. “But be patient with our helpless young hired-man writer here.” Jeremy liked Milliken’s contemptuous excusals less than Wade’s blame, and said so. “Oh, you ain’t reached the bottom of your ditch yet,” jeered the Socialist. “How’s the editorial end? Still writing ’em?” “Yes,” said Jeremy shortly. “Pot of ink; pot o’ glue; pot o’ soft soap and a pair of blinders; there’s your editorial-writer’s outfit. Done any slush-bucketing for Montrose Clark yet?” “No.” “Say it as though you did n’t expect to. But you will. Oh, yes; you’ll come to it.” “Let him be, Nick,” said the gentle old philosopher of foot-garb. “Did he let you be? Let him listen. One day old Judge Slippery Selden Dana will come puttering into The Record office--” “On the ball of his sole,” put in the Boot & Shoe Surgeon. “Pussyfooting. _Of_ course. He’ll suggest to Mr. Farley; that some recognition of Mr. Montrose Clark’s eminent services as a citizen would be timely. Know what that means? Means that Puffy Clark and the P.-U. Co. are getting ready to grab another franchise. Does Mr. Farley see it that way? He does! He remembers a little slice of P.-U. stock in the strong-box. And if Young Feller, here, is good enough with his pen, he wins the job of puffery for the puffiest little public-utility-grafting puff-adder that ever stung a city. And will _he_ see it that way? He will. He’ll remember his little pay envelope at the end of the week, and he’ll come through. It’s a grand little system.” “Nothing wrong with a system that lets a man get from his employees what he pays for,” defended Jeremy. “Nothing wrong with your cutting Eli Wade’s throat to order, either. Eh?” To this Jeremy found no reply.