“It all comes to this, Mr. Robson.” This was Blasius. “Is your paper for or against Germany in this war?” “The Guardian is neutral.” “Neutral!” snorted Bausch. “A straddler.” “Is that editorial neutral?” demanded Engel. “Not neutral as regards piracy,” answered its writer steadily. “Neutral as regards legitimate warfare.” “Of which you are the jutch,” sneered Bausch. “So far as my paper is concerned.” Bausch returned doggedly to the charge. “The Deutscher Club is a private organization of gentlemen. For what goes on within its doors we are not resbonsible to any outsider. The Guardian has traduced and defamed us--” “Sounds like an action for libel,” interpolated Galpin. “Who drew that up: Judge Dana?” Again the chairman gulped in unpleasant surprise. But he recovered and continued: “--and in the name of the club we demand a full and fitting apology--” “Hold on!” cried Jeremy. “It was a retraction just now.” “Retragtion or apology,” amended the baited chairman. “It is all the same.” “Quite different. A retraction admits an untruth. An apology merely says we’re sorry.” “I guess either will do,” muttered Engel uncertainly, perceiving that matters were not improving by discussion. “We’ll leave it to you which.” Jeremy stood up significantly. “Neither,” said he. 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.” And on the following day, he bore the news of the first attack to his chief. “Boss, prepare! The blow has fell!” he proclaimed tragically. “Who’s been denouncing us now?” “Worse. We’re excommunicated. The Deutscher Club has expelled the paper from its sacred precincts. Out we go, lock, stock, and barrel: bell, book, and candle. Two whole copies lost to circulation at one swoop.”