“It was tough on the old boy. I’d like to make that up to him. Do you think you could get him put back?”
“Hardly that. You see, he got the Germans stirred up. He was out of place on the Board, anyway. Education is the special political bent of the German-Americans, you know. No; I’m afraid he’s finished there. But I might look around and see if there is n’t something else that would be just as good for him. It’s just the little honor of having an office that flatters his type of mind.”
“I’d be mightily obliged if you could,” said Jeremy. Martin Embree lost no time on the Bausch matter. On the morrow of his interview with Jeremy, there stalked into the editorial den of The Guardian, a tall, plethoric form buttoned within the frock coat and wearing the silk hat of high ceremony. The form introduced itself with a pronounced guttural accent as President Bausch, of the Deutscher Club, removed the hat, unbuttoned the coat, took from the breast-pocket thereof a document formidable with seals and tape, dandled the precious thing reverently in its hands, and addressed the editor with solemnity.
“I have here somedthing of grade importance for your paper.”
“Take a seat,” offered the editor.
The document-bearer complied. “Id is a ledder from Prindz Henry to the Cherman Singing Societies of America.”
“The original?” asked Jeremy, regarding the waxed and tapered curio with interest.
“Certainly not! The orichinal is mounted and framed in New York. This is the official copy.”
“It certainly looks official.”
“Id iss to be printed on Ventzday.”