“The Oracle,” he wrote, “is the Mungo of the London Press—a sniffing wretch for ever scrabbling garbage in the national refuse heaps.”
There was a good deal more in this style, and the compositor, while setting up the type, was not a little disturbed in mind.
“Is this to be printed?” he asked Wynne.
“Certainly.”
“Danged if I can see what the idea is.”
“Imagine the sales, and go ahead.”
The entire issue had to be destroyed, but one or two copies escaped from the printer’s hands, and a rival flew to hilarious headlines about it.
To the amazement of every one Wynne marched into the office the morning after he had perpetrated the offence.
“What the hell is the idea?” shouted the editor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting even with my conscience,” replied Wynne.