“Magnus Laurens is n’t likely to dodge an issue.”
“He’s a queer associate for the editor of The Guardian.”
“I pick my own associates,” retorted Jeremy shortly. “Or let them pick you. Until they get ready to drop you again. That’s the way with those fellows that have got too much money.”
“He isn’t likely to buy me away, Martin,” replied Jeremy, recovering his temper.
“I’m not worrying.” The Embree smile was on duty again. “What bothers me is what the Germans will do to you for to-day’s paper.”
What the Germans did to Jeremy Robson was, in the terse slang of the day, a plenty. The German press, religious and lay, attacked The Guardian as an exponent of a narrow and blighting Know-Nothingism. One or two small German organizations passed high-sounding resolutions of reprehension. There was a flood of letters and enough “stop-the-paper” orders to afflict the soul of the much-tried Verrall. The most definite response came from Bernard Stockmuller, the jeweler, a generous advertising patron of The Guardian. On the morning following the hearing on the bill he met Jeremy on the street and stopped him.
“Vot you got against the Chermans, Mr. Robson?” he demanded truculently.
“Not a thing in the world.”
“Emil Bausch told alretty how you turned down Prinds Henry’s ledder.”
“I did not.”