honest, earnest, fervent, laborious, and the possessor of a direct and winning address. Too late, the “old gang” perceived that he had developed from a “cheap spellbinder” into a “dangerous demagogue”; and largely because they had so ill-advisedly permitted such part of the press as they controlled, to disseminate that telling speech of his. At least, they would n’t make that mistake again! Martin Embree was now too considerable a figure to be ignored in print. But no other man in the public life of Centralia was so rigorously “edited.” To-day, Jeremy Robson foresaw, his own job would be one of reporting orally, rather than writing. This acting as political lookout he quite enjoyed; it gave him a flattering sense of being on the inside of things. Then, too, there was opportunity for finesse. If the speaker of the day got upon slippery ground, Jeremy would have his chance to trip him up editorially, perhaps. He knew that Embree would not resent this in him. It was part of the game, in which they were, for the present, opponents. The Senator’s good-humor and broad-minded acceptance of the matter was one of the qualities which Jeremy most ardently admired in him. And politically he was so right and decent and clear of vision! What would not Jeremy have given for a chance as political expert on a paper supporting Embree’s main policies, a progressive and independent paper such as the Bellair Journal, for example! Perhaps that would come in time; already The Journal had offered him a reporter’s job. Meanwhile he must, in fairness, be loyal to his employers. Embree himself would admit that. Any one would admit it, except a hare-brained Socialist like Milliken. Jeremy clung to that justification of loyalty. Routine business was still in progress on the floor when Galpin of The Guardian came in and seated himself next to Jeremy. There was still a patch over his left eye. His broad and bony face wore, an expression of concerned expectation. . “What’s Embree after this time?” Jeremy whispered to him. “Us,” said Galpin. “Editorial ‘we’? The Guardian? How?” “Don’t know. Can’t pick up much. Martin don’t ever say much beforehand. Pulls his gun and shoots.” “And Lord help the bull’s-eye!” “Ay-ah,” assented Galpin. “I asked him this morning what’s what, and all he said was; ‘Better get ready to duck in the Press Gallery,’ with that smile of his that may mean fun and may mean murder. Look! There’s Slippery Selden Dana on the floor.” “That means the P.-U. is in it.” “Not necessarily. But it means something out of the ordinary. He is n’t spending Montrose Clark’s time on any picayune stuff.” “You can’t blame Embree if he goes after the newspapers,” said The Record reflectively. “Fool trick, though. They always get in the last wallop.” “Look what a raw deal he gets, here in Fenchester. The best he gets from The Record is silent contempt, and The Guardian--well, I don’t know why he has n’t sued The Guardian for libel long ago.” “What’d be the use?”