“Verboten. Lèse-majesté. Anti-imperialismus. Something dreadful of that sort.” “They aren’t as broad-minded in such things as we are,” observed Mr. Laurens, in a tone which, caused young Jeremy Robson to glance at him curiously and then become thoughtful. “Did you notice that fat and glossy person on the stage, the one who had just made that speech--what was his name? Bausch, I think--did you notice his patronizing grin when you got up, Mr. Laurens? As if he felt a calm superiority to your second-rate patriotism.” “What a malicious young person!” said Laurens. “There’s really no harm in Bausch that can’t be blown off like froth from beer.” “I suppose there _is_ a story in all that,” ruminated young Jeremy Robson: “if I had the sense to see it. Maybe it would take a historian’s mind instead of a reporter’s to see it right. But I think I can get some of it into my ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ story.” “Good luck to you and it, then,” said Magnus Laurens cordially. “I’d like to see some one in this town at this time point out that, after all, America is America.” “Would you?” said the girl. “Walk around to the next block and I will show you what I saw this morning as I passed.” They followed her around the corner and stopped before a tiny shop with a giant’s boot swinging in front of it. The legend over the door read: Boot & Shoe Infirmary Eli Wade, Surgeon Across the window was stretched a brand-new American flag, and beneath it a second legend, roughly inked on packing-paper and secured to the glass with cobbler’s wax: The Flag of Our Country. It stands alone. Two beribboned, bespangled, bebadged German Federates passed near them, and paused. “That is the man who refused to decorate with _our_ colors,” said one, in German. “Pfui!” said the second contemptuously, “’s machts nichts. Matters noding!” Jeremy Robson took off his hat and made his adieus. “You’ve given me something to think about,” he said, apportioning his acknowledgment impartially, though his eyes were on the strange and alluring face of Marcia Ames. “Good-bye, and thank you.” “If you’re grateful for being made to think,” returned Magnus Laurens, good-humoredly, “there’s hope for you as a reporter yet. That’s a good-looking boy,” he added to his companion, as the young man turned away. “Good-looking?” she repeated, with a rising inflection that controverted the opinion. “Oh, not a young Adonis. But there’s something under that thatch of hair of his or I’m no guesser. Grit, and purpose, and, I think, honesty. I hope he does n’t make hash of us in his paper.” Allowing himself an hour and a half, the reporter turned out in that time what he firmly believed to be “a pippin of a story.” After delivering the final page to an approving copy-reader he washed up, got his coat and hat and started for the door. In the hallway he came upon Senator Martin Embree, just closing a conversation with Farley, the editor-in-chief.