“Why so?” he asked.
“I bet you are a Inklish-lover. I bet you are a Cherman-hater. You would prindt the Prindz of Vales ledder. Hein?”
“Just as much or as little as I shall print of this.”
“As liddle? You will edit this; Prindz Henry’s own words?”
“If there’s too much of it.”
Dumbfounded at the proposed sacrilege, Mr. Bausch retrieved the precious roll and held it ready to thrust back into the pocket of the frock coat. “All or nothing,” he said.
“Nothing, then.”
“I will rebort this at the next meeting of the Deutscher Club,” growled the departing Teuton.
“Send us a copy of the minutes,” retorted the exasperated Jem. “Perhaps we’ll give you an editorial on those.”
He finished his writing and leaned back to meditate upon the possible results of this encounter when a well-remembered voice in the hall spoke his name, in a tone of business-like inquiry, to the youth on duty there.