'The criminal narrow-mindedness or perverse malignity which with the idolatries of Baal sullies the pure waters from the rock of Peter!—aha, now we shan't be long—sullies the pure waters, rock of Peter, there we are—and sets up thereon the golden calf whose name is the Devil or the Absolute—'"
"Have you got the leader?" came a voice from the door of the night editor's room.
"Laudetur Jesus Christus, my Lord Bishop," ejaculated Father Jost.
"Have you got the leader?" repeated Bishop Linda, coming hurriedly into the room. "Who was it that wrote this morning's leader? Heaven forgive me, what a pretty mess you've made with it. What idiot wrote it?"
"I . . . I did," stammered Father Jost, retreating; "Bishop . . . Your Lordship . . . I thought . . ."
"You've no right to think," roared Bishop Linda, his eyeglasses flashing at him eerily. "Here, take the thing"; and crumpling up that morning's issue of The People's Friend in his hand, he flung it at Jost's feet. "I thought! Look at him, he thinks! Why didn't you telephone? Why didn't you ask what you were to write? And you, Kostal, how could you put it in the paper? You thought, too, did you? Novotny!"
"Yes, sir," exclaimed the trembling printer.
