“Rascally print; a vile, low, radical, mill-owning organ. Pitch it away!”
“Certainly not, sir. Being for me and my edification, I will beg to exercise my own judgment as to how I deal with it.”
“It's deuced low, that's what it is, and that's exactly the fault of all our daily papers. Their tone is vulgar; they reflect nothing of the opinions one hears in society. Don't you agree with me?”
I gave a sort of muttering dissent, and he broke in quickly,—“Perhaps not; it's just as likely you would not think them low, but take my word for it, I'm right.”
I shook my head negatively, without speaking.
“Well, now,” cried he, “let us put the thing to the test Read out one of those leaders. I don't care which, or on what subject Read it out, and I pledge myself to show you at least one vulgarism, one flagrant outrage on good breeding, in every third sentence.”
“I protest, sir,” said I, haughtily, “I shall do no such thing. I have come here neither to read aloud nor take up the defence of the public press.”
“I say, look out!” cried he; “you 'll smash something in that bag you 're kicking there. If I don't mistake, it's Bohemian glass. No, no; all right,” said he, examining the number, “it's only Yarmouth bloaters.”
“I imagined these contained despatches, sir,” said I, with a look of what he ought to have understood as withering scorn.
“You did, did you?” cried he, with a quick laugh. “Well, I 'll bet you a sovereign I make a better guess about your pack than you 've done about mine.”