"Practical!" he exploded. "You are a blackguard, sir! You are a scoundrel, sir!"

He paused, drawing deep breaths.

"You're a traitor--you're a _Democrat_."

With all his a.s.surance, Ed was completely taken back. He actually looked frightened. The Captain's tone now changed to one of irony.

"I suppose," he said, "you believe in flying machines."

Ed hesitated.

"And in woman suffrage!"

The art of scorn has fallen sadly into disrepute in these later days.

Scorn fares hardly in an age of doubt and democracy. I can rarely feel it myself; but as it came rolling out of the old Captain that morning, I'll admit there was something grand about it.

By this time Ed had begun to recover himself.

"Well, we got to live, haven't we?" he asked.

It was very rare that the old Captain swore, for he was a sound Churchman, and when he did swear it was with a sort of reverence.

"No, by G.o.d," said the Captain, "we haven't got to live, we haven't got to live; but, by G.o.d! we've got to stand for the nation--and the Const.i.tution--and the Republican party!"

He paused, threw back his beautiful old head, and shook his mane just a little. (How he would have liked to see himself at that moment!)

"The _Weekly Star_ of Hempfield," he said, "will remain an incorruptible exponent of American inst.i.tutions. The people may cease to believe in G.o.d and the Const.i.tution, but the _Star_ will remain firm and staunch.

We shed our blood upon the field of Antietam: we stand ready to shed it again--for the nation, the Grand Old Party, and the high protective tariff. Though beaten upon by stormy seas, we shall remain impregnable."

I cannot describe how impregnable the old Captain looked, standing there by Ed's desk, one clenched fist raised aloft. He was at his best, and his best was better than you will often find in these days.

But the old Captain could no more understand Ed Smith than Ed could understand him. He would rather have laid his right hand upon living coals of fire than to have taken what he considered a "dirty dollar" for advertising. And yet in his day, no man in Westmoreland County was a keener political manipulator than he. He had traded his influence quite simply and frankly for the public printing. Was it not the natural reward of the faithful party worker? Had he not stumped the state for Blaine? Had not congressmen come to his door with their hats in their hands offering him favours in exchange for his support? And he had travelled always on railroad pa.s.ses, as was his due as an influential editor, and voted, when a member of the legislature, with sincere belief in the greatness of all captains of industry, for every railroad bill that came up.

But the idea of taking crude money for reading notices favourable to the electric lighting contract in Hempfield, or of publishing for payment the cards of Democrats--it was not in his lexicon. Times change, and the methods of men.

When the old Captain once got started on the freedom of the press he was hard to stop; but as he talked Ed's courage began to return, for he could never take the old Captain quite seriously. At the first pause he broke in with a faint attempt at jocularity.

"Who's editing this paper, anyway, Captain?"

The old Captain looked at him in astonishment.

"Why, I am," said he. "I've edited the Hempfield _Star_ for thirty years."

I think he really believed it.

"And what is more," he continued, "the _Star_ is about to part company with Ed Smith."

Ed bounced out of his chair.

"What do you mean?" he cried--and there was a sure note of fear in his voice that was not lost upon the Captain.

"You're discharged, sir!"

Ed caught his breath.

"You can't do it!" he cried. "You can't do it: you don't own the paper!

I've got a contract----"

The old Captain drew himself to his full height and pointed with one long arm at the door:

"_Go!_" said he.

It was grand.

He then turned to Fergus. "Fergus call up my niece on the telephone. I wish to speak to her."

He walked up the length of the room and back again, his hands clasped behind him under his coat tails. He did not once look at Ed.

"Is this Anthy?" he asked, when Fergus handed him the telephone. "Anthy, I have just discharged Ed Smith. He will no longer c.u.mber this office."

He paused.

"No, I said I have just discharged him. He was only small potatoes, anyway, and few in the hill."

He put down the telephone: Ed made as if to speak, but the old Captain waved him aside.

"Fergus," he said, "I have an editorial ready for this week's _Star_.

Now let's get down to business."

Having delivered himself, he was light, he was gay.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XIII

ANTHY TAKES COMMAND

Anthy was always late in reaching the office, if she came at all, on Monday mornings. It was one of the days when old Mrs. Parker came to help her, and it was necessary that the week be properly started in the household of the Doanes.

It is said of Goethe that he was prouder of his knowledge of the science of optics--which was mostly wrong--than he was of his poetry. Genius is often like that. It was so in the case of old Mrs. Parker, who considered herself incomparable as a cook (and once--this is town report--baked her spectacles in a custard pie), and held lightly her genius as a journalist. On any bright morning she could go out on her stoop, turn once or twice around, sniff the breezes, and tell you in voluminous language what her neighbours were going to have for dinner, with interesting digressions upon the character, social standing, and economic condition of each of them.

Though she often tried Anthy's orderly soul, she was as much of a feature of the household on certain days every week as the what-not in the corner of the parlour. She had been coming almost as long as Anthy could remember. For years she had amused, provoked, and tyrannized over Anthy's father, troubled his digestion with pies, and given him innumerable items for the _Star_. She was as good as any reporter.

On this particular autumn morning Mrs. Parker was unusually quiet, for her. She evidently had something on her mind. She had called upstairs only once: