“Yes. He has n’t much use for you.” “So he tells me every time he sees me. He considers me a slinker because he says I’m a Socialist at heart, but my heart is weak. Socialism is all right in its way. It’s a good vaccination, but a bad disease. Milliken’s working in your shop now, is n’t he?” “Is he? I did n’t know it.” “Stick to me and you’ll learn a lot of things,” smiled the politician. “Yes; he’s assistant to Big Girdner in the press-room. There’s another German for you, Girdner, and a good one. Well, I’ll tell Emil Bausch to come in again to see you.” At the door he paused. “By the way, are you likely to be interested personally in politics?” “Office for myself? No. I’ve got my hands full now.” “Later, perhaps. Well, if you should want anything for any of your friends, let me know. Perhaps I could manage it.” “Could you? Locally?” “I have a little influence locally, as a member of the Cities Improvement Committee.” “We were speaking of Eli Wade a moment ago,” said Jeremy. “Something I wrote in The Record helped to get him out of a job he was very proud of.” “The Public Schools Board? Yes: I know.” “It was tough on the old boy. I’d like to make that up to him. Do you think you could get him put back?” “Hardly that. You see, he got the Germans stirred up. He was out of place on the Board, anyway. Education is the special political bent of the German-Americans, you know. No; I’m afraid he’s finished there. But I might look around and see if there is n’t something else that would be just as good for him. It’s just the little honor of having an office that flatters his type of mind.” “I’d be mightily obliged if you could,” said Jeremy. Martin Embree lost no time on the Bausch matter. On the morrow of his interview with Jeremy, there stalked into the editorial den of The Guardian, a tall, plethoric form buttoned within the frock coat and wearing the silk hat of high ceremony. The form introduced itself with a pronounced guttural accent as President Bausch, of the Deutscher Club, removed the hat, unbuttoned the coat, took from the breast-pocket thereof a document formidable with seals and tape, dandled the precious thing reverently in its hands, and addressed the editor with solemnity. “I have here somedthing of grade importance for your paper.” “Take a seat,” offered the editor. The document-bearer complied. “Id is a ledder from Prindz Henry to the Cherman Singing Societies of America.” “The original?” asked Jeremy, regarding the waxed and tapered curio with interest. “Certainly not! The orichinal is mounted and framed in New York. This is the official copy.” “It certainly looks official.” “Id iss to be printed on Ventzday.” “You mean that it is released for Wednesday.” “Id iss to be printed on Ventzday,” reiterated the solemn emissary. “It should appear on your frondt page.”