The other two committeemen led out their chairman whose Adam’s apple, though pumping furiously, was missing fire so far as vocal result was concerned. Their excited interchange of views died away in the hall.
“I guess we’ve invited Old Miss Trouble in to tea this time, sure,” observed Galpin.
“You didn’t tell me about the Brender outbreak, Andy.”
“You were away at the time and had enough troubles, anyway. We could n’t get it in any such shape that I dared print it.”
“Would n’t Brender talk?”
“Tried him. Tight like a clam. Murray, who was assigned to tackle him, said he looked like a man who had lost something.”
“His country, maybe,” surmised Jeremy.
“Ay-ah. I would n’t wonder. I tell you, Boss, there’s a type of German-American that is going through hell and out the other end before this thing is over. Me, I’m glad I’m not one!”
“I’d rather be that kind than belong to the Bausch species, though. Let’s start a Back-to-Germany movement in The Guardian, Andy, and nominate Bausch for the first departure. Would n’t that qualify us for the Suicide Club!”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Boss. The Dutchers will save us the trouble of suicide, if they can.”