Newson holds out a copy of today’s Evening Star, folded open to display a quarter page. “I’m beginning to wonder about you, lad.”
“Wonder in what way, sir?”
Newson glares down at him over the edge of his battle table; it puts McCurdy in mind of a wolf about to devour a rabbit.
“The editorial position of this paper is emphatically on the temperance side. You know this, lad. You knew it when I hired you. Always has been and always will be.”
He thrusts the offending piece forward in front of the reporter’s nose: “Do you have a good explanation for this? I tell you lad, there had better be.”
McCurdy anticipated this meeting well before the See Me note arrived, and had ample time to prepare a reply. As a writer he might hold his line of work in contempt, but it doesn’t follow that he wants to be fired. His sight gravitates to the Union Jack in the corner:
“Daisy Douglas Tyler is an American, sir. Do we really want Americans to take charge of the Canadian temperance movement?”
General Newson flinches at this unexpected rejoinder. He pulls the paper back, squints at the article, lays it down on the desk, squints at it again. A pause follows, as he leans back in his chair, making a steeple of his long fingers, deep in thought.
“Please continue, lad. You interest me.”
“Knowing your sharp mind, sir, I’m sure you quickly picked up on the fact that not only is Miss Tyler American, but so is the Ku Klux Klan. I, for one, find this alarming. Surely the paper’s editorial line is that Canadians should be masters of our own house.”
Newson reflects aloud: “Those bloody Americans. Joined the war three years late, and to hear them you’d think they won it single-handed.”
“That is so true, sir. And I don’t think you led the fight for a sober, white, British province, only to hand the reform effort over to our friends in the south.”
The general’s eyes focus inward, like a sleepwalker. “That bastard Armstrong…”
“Beg your pardon, sir? Do you mean Gen Hector Armstrong?”
“The snake married a rich American, made his money by selling out the west to Yankees. Alberta is the forty-ninth state now, thanks to that traitor.”
“And, of course, we mustn’t forget that Gordon Cunning was born in Missouri.”
Newson rises to his feet and slaps the table so hard that a miniature Red Ensign flag topples over. “By God, you’ve hit upon it, lad! The Americans are an insidious race, sneaky as Chinamen—look what they did to Mexico. We must stand on guard on all fronts.”
“Absolutely, sir. It’s another kind of invasion—an invasion in spirit, co-opting our national struggle.”
“An Invasion in Spirit—now there’s a headline for you!”
“Gordon Cunning may have been a scoundrel, but he’s our scoundrel. I’d hate to think the Star is about to let the Americans denounce him on our behalf.”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself, son. I can see that you have the bit in your teeth. Forward!”