The Beauty and the Bolshevist

								

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?”
“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 pack a bag. Ask Miss Cox what time
that Newport boat leaves.”
“Newport! Great heavens, Ben! What is this? A little week-end?”