“You mean The Guardian is right in practically saying he’s a crook?” “No. I guess he’s the nearest decent thing we’ve got in this rotten mess of politics,” said Galpin with the experienced political reporter’s cynical view of public men, “unless it’s Magnus Laurens.” “Then why won’t they give him a fair shake? I don’t mind their going after him editorially. That’s opinion. But to cut him out of the news, that gets my goat a little.” “Ay-ah? Well, you see, he’s gumming our game.” “What ga--” “The whole, dam’, slick, polite graft that makes the machine run so smooth and nice and turns out the pretty little dividends for the banks and the railroads and the big companies generally. Haven’t you seen into that millstone yet?” “You talk as if you were really on Embree’s side.” “Ay-ah. Why not?” “But The Guard--” “I’m a hired man,” said Galpin impassively. “If you had a paper of your own--” “Be a hired man just the same.” “Who could boss you then?” asked Jeremy in surprise. “Same bunch that bosses The Record and The Guardian.” “Could n’t a paper be run independent of them?” “Never has been in this town.” “But could n’t it?” persisted the other. “Would n’t it be fun to work on a paper like that!” “Gee!” murmured Galpin. They were like two urchins savoring a golden and imaginative treat. “Mr. President.” The resonant tones of Martin Embree’s rich and effortless voice roused the reporters from their boyish vision. He stood tall, handsome, easy, confident, but his usually sunny face was grave, and he held in his hand a document, contrary to his custom. Before he had spoken five minutes to the hushed attention of floor and galleries, it became evident that his talk was centering and converging upon that document. His subject was the “cheese check” scandal which had roused the dairy farmers of his region to fury. He traced the steps whereby the commission men’s combine had sought legislation which would have rendered the producer almost helpless in their hands, touched upon alleged bribery in the lower House, referred to the part which two of the Fenchester banking institutions had played (“That’s why Dana was here; Montrose Clark’s in the banking game on the side,” whispered Galpin), and continued: “For my own conscientious and repeated attempts to block this nefarious deal, I have been consistently derided as a silly reformer by one of the local newspapers, and denounced by the other in terms which, were circumstances otherwise, I should reply to by a suit for criminal libel. I am enabled to deal with The Fenchester Guardian, in a more effective, swifter, and more relevant manner. Will the clerk of the Senate kindly read this letter, which fell into my hands by a happy accident, and the authenticity of which will not be denied by its author?” The clerk of the Senate received the document with a look of interest unusual in his stolid official bearing. He began to read: