"A _sitz-redacteur_, Comrade Windsor, is a gentleman employed by German newspapers with a taste for _lèse majesté_ to go to prison whenever required in place of the real editor. The real editor hints in his bright and snappy editorial, for instance, that the Kaiser's moustache reminds him of a bad dream. The police force swoops down en masse on the office of the journal, and are met by the _sitz-redacteur_, who goes with them peaceably, allowing the editor to remain and sketch out plans for his next week's article on the Crown Prince. We need a _sitz-redacteur_ on _Cosy Moments_ almost as much as a fighting editor; and we have neither." "The Kid has had to leave then?" "He wants to go into training at once. He very sportingly offered to cancel his match, but of course that would never do. Unless you consider Comrade Maloney equal to the job, I must look around me for some one else. I shall be too fully occupied with purely literary matters to be able to deal with chance callers. But I have a scheme." "What's that?" "It seems to me that we are allowing much excellent material to lie unused in the shape of Comrade Jarvis." "Bat Jarvis." "The same. The cat-specialist to whom you endeared yourself somewhat earlier in the proceedings by befriending one of his wandering animals. Little deeds of kindness, little acts of love, as you have doubtless heard, help, etc. Should we not give Comrade Jarvis an opportunity of proving the correctness of this statement? I think so. Shortly after you--if you will forgive me for touching on a painful subject--have been haled to your dungeon, I will push round to Comrade Jarvis's address, and sound him on the subject. Unfortunately, his affection is confined, I fancy, to you. Whether he will consent to put himself out on my behalf remains to be seen. However, there is no harm in trying. If nothing else comes of the visit, I shall at least have had the opportunity of chatting with one of our most prominent citizens." A policeman appeared at the door. "Say, pal," he remarked to Psmith, "you'll have to be fading away soon, I guess. Give you three minutes more. Say it quick." He retired. Billy leaned forward to Psmith. "I guess they won't give me much chance," he whispered, "but if you see me around in the next day or two, don't be surprised." "I fail to follow you, Comrade Windsor." "Men have escaped from Blackwell's Island before now. Not many, it's true; but it has been done." Psmith shook his head. "I shouldn't," he said. "They're bound to catch you, and then you will be immersed in the soup beyond hope of recovery. I shouldn't wonder if they put you in your little cell for a year or so." "I don't care," said Billy stoutly. "I'd give a year later on to be round and about now." "I shouldn't," urged Psmith. "All will be well with the paper. You have left a good man at the helm." "I guess I shan't get a chance, but I'll try it if I do." The door opened and the policeman reappeared.