BEHOLD, now, Miss Marcia Ames, conspiratress, seated in the depths of
the Boot & Shoe Infirmary, deep in converse with Dr. Eli Wade, Surgeon
of Soles and Healer of Leather. Opinion was always to be had at the
Sign of the Big Shoe; often information; sometimes wisdom. Miss Ames was
seeking light upon her problem wherever she might find it. Her scheme
for Magnus Laurens had been successful; that in which Montrose Clark was
to have played the Beneficent Influence, had prospered in part; yet The
Guardian’s downhill pace had been only mitigated, not checked. Methods
more radical must be found. Eli Wade proved at least a friendly, if not
a broad-visioned consultant.
“A fighter, thet young man is,” said Eli Wade. “He don’t go stumblin’,
any more. Straight, he goes. And if he falls at the end, it’ll be in the
best fight any man ever made in this town against a gang of snakes and
traitors.”
“But he must not fall, Eli!” cried the girl. “We must not let him fall.”
“Ah! Thet’s the talk! If them as had oughta stood by him had done so,
he’d be all right to-day.”
“Who? Why have they failed him? Is it that they do not understand?”
“Blind,” said Eli Wade. “They don’t see. They’re millin’ round wherever
the Germans and the slick politicians drive ’em. If ever I was
fooled in a pair o’ shoes it was them Number Eights of ‘Smilin’ Mart’
Embree’s.”
“But your kind of people, Eli! Simple, straight, honest people. Why
would they not stand by The Guardian?”
“Bless your soul! They do. They’re solid. It’s the advertisers thet are
trippin’ up his feet.”
“So Mr. Galpin says. The stores.”
“Yes. The stores support the newspapers with their advertising, an’ so
they rule or ruin ’em.”
“When have they ruled The Guardian?”
“Never. Nick Milliken says thet’s what’s wrong. Thet’s why they’re
against it. He says if you could get at what supports the stores an’
work on thet, The Guardian might be pulled out yet. I got my own notions
about thet.”
“About what supports the stores? The public, does it not?”
“Part of the public.”
“What part?”
“Women-folks,” said the Boot & Shoe Surgeon tersely.
Upon that pronouncement Marcia Ames pondered. There seemed to be a gleam
in it. The more she thought, the more the gleam expanded. It became a
ray of light.
“The women!” she said. “Of course they do. Who ever saw a man in a
department store?”
“Well, I would n’t go thet far,” returned the Surgeon. “I reckon they’s
a few. But they don’t wear out much sole leather there. And if any one
was to say to The Big Shop or The Northwestern, or Ellison Brothers or
any of them big advertisers, ‘We’ll take the women-folks away, but you
can keep the men,’ thet store would about close its doors next week.”
Marcia Ames rose out of her deep chair. There was a glow on her face.
“Eli Wade,” she said, “you are a great man!”
“No, _ma’am_,” disclaimed the other. “Jest a handy man with leather.”
“Well, you are a dear! And that is better. I believe--I do believe--you
have shown the way. If only there is time! I am going to take your big
idea to high legal talent for consultation.”
“Hain’t had any big idea sence”--his old, keen eyes twinkled--“sence the
State Capitol flew the German flag in honor of the Surrender Bill. But
who’s your legal talent?”
“Judge Selden Dana.”
“You’re the wonder, Miss Marcia. How’d you know you could trust him? He
ain’t always been reckoned trustable.”
“No? But in a matter like this--I am sure.”
“Kee-rect! You got him. He’s marchin’.”
“Marching?”
“To the music of war. He’s quit slinkin’. Left--right, left--right! True
to the drum. Watch his feet.”
“Good-bye, Eli Wade,” said Marcia. “If your big idea works out--I shall
love you forever.”
To Judge Selden Dana, when she unfolded it, it seemed more like her own
idea. Unquestionably, however, it was a promising one. If there were
only time! If the scheme could be set afoot before The Fair Dealer was
in the field; if some way could be found to delay the publication--at
which point Judge Dana fell to thinking powerfully. All the pleasant
candor went out of his face, as he pondered, and it became subtle and
secret and dark. Yet the girl, watching, liked it and trusted it none
the less in this manifestation. She knew that the mind within was
working to good ends. At length he spoke.
“I’ve got a plan for The Fair Dealer. No; never mind what it is. Forget
that we even spoke of it.”
“It is forgotten.”
“Go ahead with the women. Mr. Clark and I will help where we can. You
can organize the University girls?”
“Yes.”
“Good! One more thing. Not a whisper of this to Jem Robson.”
“Mr. Robson knows nothing of it. What I have learned has been from Mr.
Galpin.”
“Nor to Galpin, either. Or any one else at The Guardian.”
“Have you a fancy to play at mysteries and secrets, Judge Dana?” teased
the girl.
“Mysteries? Secrets? Great Scott, young woman! Collusions and
conspiracies! Trust an old fox of the law. If it should come to an issue
and it could be shown that The Guardian people had knowledge of your
precious little plot--well, I should n’t care to have the case to
defend. So, work as quietly as you can. I think a hundred women--if
they’re representative, mind you,--will about do the business.”
He contemplated her, with a gentle light in his pinched, wrinkled,
shrewd old eyes. “My dear,” he said, “I remember four years ago, at the
Federated German Societies, how you stood up, straight and brave, before
all of them.”
“Do you?” said Marcia, answering his smile.
“You’re still doing it. Still standing up as you did then. I’d do a good
deal for you, if it were only in memory of that.”
“Thank you, Judge Dana,” she said simply.
“And I’d do a good deal for that young hot-head, Jem Robson. About
anything I could do, I guess.”
“Thank you,” said the girl again, but there was a thrill in her voice
this time.
Into the devious ways of the legal profession and of railroad operation
when they run parallel it is not meet for the layman to inquire too
closely. Suffice it to say here that Judge Selden Dana took a brief
trip to the office of a certain railway system, and thence followed up
a certain consignment of freight which subsequently became the innocent
victim of cross-orders to the extent of getting itself mysteriously and
obscurely side-tracked while certain interests in Fenchester afflicted
the heavens above, the earth beneath, the Postal Telegraph, the Western
Union, and all the long-distance wires with frantic inquiries. Further
it may be stated that this sort of law-and-railroad practice is such as
would have been severely condemned by Mr. Jeremy Robson, editor of
The Guardian, had he known of it. He knew nothing. There were many and
important matters happening at this time whereof he knew nothing.
This matter having been arranged, Judge Dana made an appointment by
telephone, and called to see Jeremy.
“Got another dicker to suggest, Judge?” the editor greeted him, with
indulgent raillery.
“No,” returned the caller slowly; “no dicker. This is serious business,
young man. How long are you going to be able to hold out?”
“Don’t you worry about us,” said Jeremy, who had n’t the smallest
intention of betraying the paper’s status to the wily lawyer. “There’s a
lot of fight left in the old hulk yet.”
“What about this strike?”
“So you’ve heard about that?”
“I’ve seen Milliken.”
“Milliken is fired.”
“So he told me.”
“How came you to be on such close terms with a rank Socialist?” taunted
the editor.
“I’ll be on terms with a rattlesnake if he’ll play my game,” replied the
lawyer with one of those bursts of frankness wherewith he occasionally
favored Jeremy. “Never mind Milliken now. Can you beat out this strike
if it comes?”
Suddenly Jeremy looked tired and old.
“I don’t know,” he said lifelessly.
“Is there any danger of The Guardian having to give up in the next
month?”
“It’s getting harder sledding all the time,” confessed Jeremy. “The
strike might finish us, at that.”
“Publication date of The Fair Dealer is postponed two weeks,” observed
the lawyer.
“No! What’s caused that?”
“How should I know? They say part of the machinery has been lost in
transit. It was shipped via the Lake Belt Line, for which I happen to
be counsel. But I can’t imagine”--he paused, and Jeremy saw a distinct,
enlightening flicker of his left eyelid--“I can _not_ imagine what has
caused the unfortunate delay! I should think there might be danger of
their losing some of their promised advertising!”
“Oh, their contracts are all made. Trust Verrall for that.”
“Doubtless. But will they hold? I understand they specified an issue of
July 5th.”
“What of it?” said Jeremy wearily. “The advertisers will make new
contracts. You could n’t pry ’em away from that twenty-five thousand
circulation at the low rate given.”
“Who knows what the morrow may bring forth?” said the lawyer oracularly.
“‘I could a tale unfold’--” He stopped, with a large gesture.
“There’s always a cloven hoof that goes with your kind of tail,”
retorted Jeremy. “But if you’ve really got anything cheery up your
sleeve, spring it. I could do with a little cheering-up right now. That
postponement of publication is a good start. What’s next?”
“My son, the less you know just now, the better. But I’ll tell you this:
Some of us who are--well--interested in The Guardian, for reasons of our
own, are skating on the thin edge of conspiracy, treason, stratagem, and
crime, as it is. Do you want in? You do not want in! You stay out and
keep a stiff upper lip. Can’t use any of our spare cash? No! Well, if
your neck was a little stiffer it’d break! Good-bye, and hang on!”
All of which Jeremy promptly retailed to the faithful Galpin with the
comment:
“Something’s certainly up, but how much is for us, and how much for
Clark, Dana & Company, I don’t know.”
“You got a mean, suspicious sort of mind, Boss,” grinned the general
manager. “But I admit I don’t get that bunch yet.”
“Nor I. But I’m watching.”
“Somebody’s pushing on the reins upstairs again. If the strike don’t
bust this week, I’m a goat! I caught Milliken hanging round yesterday
and chased him out. Gave him the police talk.”
“Dana knew all about Milliken and the strike. Had it from Milliken
himself.”
“Wheels and wheels and wheels!” commented Andy, making expansive and
elegantly rounded gestures. “Wheels within wheels; wheels without
wheels; wheels going in opposite directions and at different speeds.
They make me dizzy!”
They made Jeremy dizzy, too. At least, something made him dizzy. He was
dizzy a good deal of the time, and tired. Very tired. He thought that
some vague and hopeful day he’d take a week off. When things quieted
down. When Andy’s anathematized “Botches” let up on the paper. When
advertisers ceased to trouble. When the whole show was over and the
final issue of The Guardian had closed with its final challenge to the
forces of Deutschtum. When his heart stopped crying out for Marcia.
Meantime he wearily wished he could get a night’s sleep.