They are the real patriots. Every new recruit pushes the flag a little farther forward. But you've got to make up your mind to compromise."

"I haven't had to do it yet," Yetta said.

"Perhaps not yet. But sooner or later you will have to, if you're going to play the newspaper game."

"That's the trouble with you people," Yetta exclaimed, as if she suddenly saw a light, "you call it a game. I'm not playing with life.

I've got to consider myself and my work serious. I won't compromise. If it's the rule of the game--why, I'll quit playing it."

The surprising thing was that she was not asked to compromise. Mr. Brace seemed to take very little interest in what she wrote. When he spoke to her about it, it was to make some technical suggestion about the use of "caps" or "italics." No party Socialist could have accused her contributions of lack of orthodoxy. She was giving her readers the straight gospel. Day after day Isadore read them and wondered.

Mrs. Karner also wondered. Coming home late one night, she encountered her husband in the hallway; he had just shown out some friends who had been playing poker. She swept by him with a curt "Good night." He was a little drunk. But she stopped halfway up the stairs.

"I say, Bert. Explain to me the mystery of Yetta Rayefsky. Her column this afternoon is straight Socialism. What does it mean? Has a ray of light penetrated into the subterranean gloom of your office? Has the editorial staff fallen in love with her?"

Karner had been winning and was in good spirits.

"That's so. I've forgotten to thank you for suggesting her. She's a gold mine."

"Yes. But how can _The Star_ stand the tone of decency she gives it?"

"Don't worry," he winked profoundly. "There'll be money enough for your trip to Europe. A column and a half won't hurt us."

"But why do you let her do it? What's the answer?"

"As simple as A B C. I'm surprised you don't see it yourself. The little lady's bugs on sweat-shops. And sweat-shops don't advertise. See? As long as she sticks to the East Side, she can d.a.m.n any one she likes to.

And as for Socialism--the girls don't vote."

"It was stupid of me not to understand," Mrs. Karner said as she went on up to her room. "Goodnight--Cynic."

She never realized how much her jibes stung her husband.

"d.a.m.n the women," he muttered. "She married me for my money and don't like the way I earn it."

Mr. Karner had loved his wife more than anything--except the pleasure of cutting a figure in the world. His paper made him a power in the community. Presidential candidates bid for his support. No one had dared to blackball him when he had recently put up his name at a club which was supposed to be composed of gentlemen. But his wife neither respected nor feared him. He stood gloomily in the hallway--the fumes of champagne making things oscillate gently--wondering whether he dared to go to her room. He decided he was afraid, and, calling for his hat and coat, went out.

But to the other people who were asking the same question which Mrs.

Karner had put to her husband, no answer was given. Isadora's daily amazement at Yetta's outspoken Socialism gradually grew into a conviction that he had been wrong. He wrote her a loyal letter of apology, and Yetta in a condescending reply forgave him.

But trouble came as Christmas was approaching. Some ladies from the Woman's Consumers' League called on Yetta, and, after praising her work for factory women, tried to enlist her aid in the cause of the department-store girls, who are so shamefully overworked in the season of holiday shopping. They wanted her to speak at a ma.s.s meeting. It was not hard to interest Yetta in such a cause.

"Give me some of the facts," she said, after she had promised to speak, "and I'll run some stories about it in _The Star_."

But her first department-store article did not come out. It had been "killed" in favor of a receipt for preserving the gloss on finger-nails.

A copy-reader, being wise in newspaper business and anxious to gain favor, had run to the advertising manager with the proof. The advertising manager had rushed angrily to Mr. Brace. Brace had gone to Mr. Karner. Mr. Karner had thrown it into the wastepaper basket and suggested the finger-nail story.

When Yetta called up Mr. Brace about it, she found him inclined to treat the matter as a joke. "After all," he laughed, "you know there are limits. You can't take a man's money for advertis.e.m.e.nt on one page and spit in his eye on another. There is plenty of work for your scalping knife among people who don't advertise."

Yetta began to understand. It was her first introduction to serious temptation. In six months newspaper work had got into her blood. Besides the pleasant thrill of it, there was the usefulness. There were hundreds of girls who depended on her largely. It was hard to give up such an audience. And it was pleasant work--well-paid. It was a wonderful thing for a sweat-shop girl to have climbed so high. Should she go on "playing the game"? For a while she tried to shift the responsibility to other shoulders. What would people think? She knew what Mabel and Isadore would think. Mabel would tell her to compromise. Isadore the opposite.

What would Walter think? And then it suddenly came to her clearly that it didn't matter at all what anybody else thought. She had to decide it by herself. Whatever happened, she would always have to live with herself. Self-respect was more important than the regard of even the closest friend. They were asking her to do just what she had emphatically told Cowan she would never do. She put on her hat and went to Mr. Karner's office.

"This matter does not concern me," he said. "I employ Mr. Brace to edit the magazine page, and I trust his ability and judgment. If he considered it unwise to run your article, that ends it."

"Mr. Karner, if _The Star_ is afraid to touch department stores, I'll resign."

He spun round in his chair.

"Afraid? That's strong language."

"It's very easy to prove it unjustified," she said quickly.

He looked at her sternly for a few minutes, taking her measure. It was his ability at this process which had enabled him to build up his paper from a third-rater to its present position.

"Miss Rayefsky, you want a flat answer. We're in business to make money.

We won't attack our heaviest advertisers."

Yetta got up.

"Don't be in a hurry. n.o.body gets a chance to resign from my staff twice. Think this over for a couple of days. We've been satisfied with your work; I hoped you were. I hoped that you thought what you were doing was worth while. You can go on doing it indefinitely as far as I can see. You're about to throw up this work because you can't do the impossible. It isn't just _The Star_. It's a limitation of journalism.

No editor in the city could print that story."

"Within twenty-four hours I'll mail it to you in print," Yetta said, moving towards the door.

"So!" he growled. "That's it, is it? Somebody else has offered you a better contract. You forget, of course, that we taught you how to write--that we advertised you--made you. You forget all that as soon as somebody else offers you--"

But Yetta had slammed the door in his face.

Back in her room, she called up Isadore and told him the story.

"I'm mailing you the article to print in _The Clarion_."

So she made the honorable amend.

"I was half wrong, anyhow," he tried to comfort her. "I never would have believed they'd let you free as long as they did. And besides--you've learned to write. I hope you'll give us some more."

What hurt Yetta most was that a cable had come from Teheran saying that Walter had started homeward. He would hear of the mess she had made.

Mr. Karner, when he received the Socialist paper, with Yetta's article in it, vented some of his profane rage on his wife. The quarrel which resulted brought Mrs. Karner to life.

CHAPTER XXII

WALTER'S RETURN

When the Archaeological Expedition reached Constantinople, the married men were met by their wives.

To the suburbanite who comes home after each day's work, the dinner is likely to seem as important as his spouse. The waiting wife has a deeper significance for the sailor and explorer. For three years these men had seen no white women, except in a Scotch Mission compound, four days'