The chairman produced from the official pocket a document which he proceeded to render vocally. It was quite grave and awful in verbiage, and there was a great deal of it, rising through a spiral of whereas-es to a climax of denunciation. At the conclusion the editor held out his hand. “If you please.” “You want this?” queried Mr. Bausch doubtfully. “What for?” “For to-morrow’s paper.” “You wish to publish it? Why?” A glint appeared in Jeremy’s eye. “It’s so prettily worded,” he explained with sweet simplicity. Bausch turned the characterization over in his heavy mind. “Pretty,” he said. “_Pretty?_ I do not think--” “He’s making a fool of you, Mr. Chairman,” broke in Engel, a little, neat, nervous man. He turned on Jeremy. “You insult our club and now you insult us.” “Apropos of insults,” retorted Jeremy: “what about this document that Mr. Bausch has just read so expressively? Murder seems to be about the only thing that is n’t charged in it. Would you call that a testimonial of regard?” “Consider the provocation,” said Blasius. “Be square about this thing, Mr. Robson.” “Give me a chance,” returned the editor promptly. “Don’t begin by holding a gun to my head.” “The case is blain,” stated Bausch in his heavy accents. “You cannot deny the editorial charching that we made a festivity over the Lusitania.” “Evidently not.” “We demand a retragtion of that.” “On what ground?” “Because it was an outrache on a high-toned, representative organization, a private--” “Was n’t it true?” Andrew Galpin’s sharp-edged voice injected a new and brisker element. “Huh?” The interrogation seemed to have been jolted out of Chairman Bausch’s volume from somewhere below the Adam’s apple. “Was n’t it true that there was a dinner at the club to celebrate the Lusitania?” “That is not the question.” “It’s my question.” “It’s the only question,” put in Jeremy. “You refuse to apologize--” “For commenting on fact? Certainly.” “While we ’re on the subject,” pursued Galpin, “is n’t it true that Professor Brender, of Old Central, came in when the dinner was half over, and gave you all hell for pulling such a rotten stunt?” “Gott im Himmel!” muttered Blasius. He turned to Bausch. “Is that true?” “That he said his heart was all for Germany, and that if submarine warfare was necessary to her success it must go on; but that the man who rejoiced over its necessary tragedies was a reckless fool who put every decent German-American in a false light? Isn’t that true?” continued the relentless voice of Galpin. “Are you going to prind that?” muttered Bausch. “A newspaper does n’t print everything it hears. If we could have verified it, we’d have printed it, at the time.” “We shall come back to the point,” said the chairman, recovering himself. “The Guardian editorial is an affront to a respected and valuable element of the community.” “We don’t respect child-and-women murderers,” flashed Jeremy, “nor those who honor them.”