nothing and wherein he had promptly become lost. This lasted for a
week, while father chuckled and said the book had touched a sore spot on
capitalism. And then, abruptly, the newspapers and the critical
magazines ceased saying anything about the book at all. Also, and with
equal suddenness, the book disappeared from the market. Not a copy was
obtainable from any bookseller. Father wrote to the publishers and was
informed that the plates had been accidentally injured. An
unsatisfactory correspondence followed. Driven finally to an
unequivocal stand, the publishers stated that they could not see their
way to putting the book into type again, but that they were willing to
relinquish their rights in it.

"And you won't find another publishing house in the country to touch
it," Ernest said. "And if I were you, I'd hunt cover right now. You've
merely got a foretaste of the Iron Heel."

But father was nothing if not a scientist. He never believed in jumping
to conclusions. A laboratory experiment was no experiment if it were
not carried through in all its details. So he patiently went the round
of the publishing houses. They gave a multitude of excuses, but not one
house would consider the book.

When father became convinced that the book had actually been suppressed,
he tried to get the fact into the newspapers; but his communications
were ignored. At a political meeting of the socialists, where many
reporters were present, father saw his chance. He arose and related the
history of the suppression of the book. He laughed next day when he
read the newspapers, and then he grew angry to a degree that eliminated
all tonic qualities. The papers made no mention of the book, but they
misreported him beautifully. They twisted his words and phrases away