Had Mr. Bausch but known it, this landed him full upon the editor’s pet toe: a toe, moreover, by this time angrily sore from over-frequent treadings. It was no time to be telling the new proprietor and editor of that free and untrammeled organ, The Guardian, what to and what not to print, or where to locate it. “It will if it’s worth it.” stated that gentleman briefly. “Wordth? Id iss _most_ important,” his visitor assured him. “I have also here the material from which could be derifed a valuable editorial--” “I can’t really see that such a letter, even though it be news, is a subject for editorial comment in The Guardian,” said Jeremy impatiently. “Do you understand _whoo_ this ledder iss from?” cried the other. “Prindz Henry! Our Kaiser’s brother. And you tell me--” “Whose Kaiser’s brother? Not mine.” An incredulous and pious shock passed over the face of Mr. Emil Bausch. “Not yours! What matters you? The Kaiser of all goodt Chermans.” He contemplated the young man with gloomy severity. “If id was the Prindz of Vales I will bet you prindt it.” Unversed in the carefully inbred German hatred and jealousy of all things British, Jeremy was mildly puzzled. “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. “Come right in, Buddy,” called Jeremy. Buddy Higman entered. He was dressed with extreme correctness, even to the extent of a whole and intact pair of suspenders, and his Sunday coat which he carried genteelly over his arm. Jeremy pointed an accusing finger at him. “I know what you’ve come here for.” “Gee!” murmured Buddy, impressed. “You’ve come to tell me how to run my paper.” “Me?” said Buddy. “Or to order something put in.” “What--” “Or kept out.” “No, sir,” said the astounded Buddy. “What!! Don’t you know how to run my paper better than I do?” “N-n-no, sir.” “Then you’re unique in this town. Come to my arms. I mean, sit down. What’s that you’re trying to get out of your pocket?” “A--a--a letter, sir.” “Hah! I knew it. From the Kaiser!” “No, sir. I don’t know him,” said Buddy nervously. “What are you calling me ‘sir’ for?” demanded Jeremy, suspicious at this unaccustomed courtesy.