The editor was often called a Bolshevist—­as who is not in these days?  For language is given us not only to conceal thought, but often to prevent it, and every now and then when the problems of the world become too complex and too vital, some one stops all thought on a subject by inventing a tag, like “witch” in the seventeenth century, or “Bolshevist” in the twentieth.

Ben Moreton was not a Bolshevist; indeed, he had written several editorials to show that, in his opinion, their doctrines were not sound, but of course the people who denounced him never thought of reading his paper.  He was a socialist, a believer in government ownership, and, however equably he attempted to examine any dispute between capital and labor, he always found for labor.  He was much denounced by ultraconservatives, and perhaps their instinct was sound, for he was educated, determined, and possessed of a personality that attached people warmly, so that he was more dangerous than those whose doctrines were more militant.  He was not wholly trusted by the extreme radicals.  His views were not consistently agreeable to either group.  For instance, he believed that the conscientious objectors were really conscientious, a creed for which many people thought he ought to be deported.  On the other hand, he doubted that Wall Street had started the war for its own purposes, a skepticism which made some of his friends think him just fit for a bomb.

The great problem of his life was how 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: 

    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?”