“You mean that it is released for Wednesday.”
“Id iss to be printed on Ventzday,” reiterated the solemn emissary. “It should appear on your frondt page.”
Had Mr. Bausch but known it, this landed him full upon the editor’s pet toe: a toe, moreover, by this time angrily sore from over-frequent treadings. It was no time to be telling the new proprietor and editor of that free and untrammeled organ, The Guardian, what to and what not to print, or where to locate it.
“It will if it’s worth it.” stated that gentleman briefly.
“Wordth? Id iss most important,” his visitor assured him. “I have also here the material from which could be derifed a valuable editorial—”
“I can’t really see that such a letter, even though it be news, is a subject for editorial comment in The Guardian,” said Jeremy impatiently.
“Do you understand whoo this ledder iss from?” cried the other. “Prindz Henry! Our Kaiser’s brother. And you tell me—”
“Whose Kaiser’s brother? Not mine.”
An incredulous and pious shock passed over the face of Mr. Emil Bausch. “Not yours! What matters you? The Kaiser of all goodt Chermans.” He contemplated the young man with gloomy severity. “If id was the Prindz of Vales I will bet you prindt it.”
Unversed in the carefully inbred German hatred and jealousy of all things British, Jeremy was mildly puzzled.