to hold together a body of liberals so that they could be effective. This problem was going to be immensely complicated by the marriage of his brother with the daughter of a conspicuous capitalist like William Cord. 

 He pushed the buzzer on his desk and wrote out the following telegram: 

CONTENTS

 David Moreton, Care William Cord, Newport, R.I. 

 Am taking boat Newport to-night. Meet me. 

 Ben. 

 No one answered his buzzer, but presently a boy came in collecting copy, and Moreton said to him: 

 “Here, get this sent, and ask Klein to come here. He’s in the composing room.” 

 And presently Mr. Klein entered, in the characteristic dress of the newspaper man—namely, shirt sleeves and a green shade over his eyes. 

 “Look here, Ben!” he exclaimed in some excitement. “Here’s a thousand-dollar check just come in for the strike fund. How’s that for the second day?” 

 “Good enough,” said Ben, who would ordinarily have put in a good hour rejoicing over such unexpected good fortune, but whose mind was now on other things. “I have to go out of town to-night. You’ll be here, won’t you, to lock the presses? And, see here, Leo, what is the matter with our book page?” 

 “Pretty rotten page,” replied Klein. 

 “I should say it was—all about taxes and strikes and economic crises. I told Green never to touch those things in the book reviews. Our readers get all they want of that from us in the news and the editorials—hotter, better stuff, too. I’ve told him not to touch ’em in the book page, and he runs nothing else. He ought to be beautiful—ought to talk about fairies, and poetry, and twelfth-century art. What’s the matter with him?” 

 “He doesn’t know anything,” said Klein. “That’s his trouble. He’s clever, but he doesn’t know much. I guess he only began to read books a couple years ago. They excite him too much. He wouldn’t read a fairy story. He’d think he was wasting time.” 

 “Get some one to help him out.” 

 “Who’d I get?” 

 “Look about. I’ve got to go home and 

 Prev. P 3/53 next