k bones,
but the mouth closed firmly, almost obstinately, and contradicted the
rest of the face with a touch of aggressiveness, just as in Lincoln's
face the dreamer was contradicted by the shrewd, practical mouth. He
crossed his arms above the elbow so that one long hand dangled on one
side of his knees and one on the other--a favorite pose of his--and
sat thinking.

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 ent