To the Drovers’ Bank went the owner of the Fenches-ter Guardian, a daily with a rapidly rising circulation of eleven thousand, an increasing advertising patronage, and a fair plant. He was courteously received by the president of the institution, an old, glossy, and important looking nonentity named Warrington. Mr. Warrington listened with close attention, made some thoughtful figures on a blotter, and requested Mr. Robson to return that afternoon when a positive answer would be given. But Mr. Warrington thought--he was quite of the opinion--he confidently believed--that there would be no difficulty. “There’s one thing that worries me, Boss,” commented Andrew Galpin as the pair sat absorbing coffee and pie into their systems at a five-cent, time-saving lunch-counter near the office. “Pass me the sugar--and the worry,” requested Jeremy. “Why should Wanser close down just at this time?” “Why not?” “Well, safely secured loans of twenty thousand dollars aren’t the kind of business a bank chucks to another bank.” “Did n’t I indicate to you that his loyal German heart was sore?” “Why was n’t it sore last summer, when the bill was up?” “Do you think somebody’s been stirring him up to go after us?” “More likely he’s got some reason to think we’re up against it.” “Hoots! We were never in such good shape.” “That’s our view. I’m wondering if, maybe, Bausch and his lot are putting up some kind of a game.” “What kind of a game can they be putting up?” “I’d have to understand German to read their minds. Maybe they’ll stir up the advertisers against us. Like Stockmuller.” “Any local advertiser that thinks he can do business without The Guardian,” stated the owner arrogantly, “is suffering from an aggravated form of fool-in-the-head.” “That’s good doctrine. If only you can make ’em believe it.” “They believe it all right.” “Say, Boss. Why not get Mart Embree’s view on it?”’ “Good idea.” Jeremy went to the Governor-elect. “What did you expect?” asked that acute commentator on men and events. “Can’t you understand that you insulted every good German-American by attacking them on the point where their pride is most involved, the superiority of their educational system?” “Allowing that, is this just a belated revenge on Wanser’s part?” “No. It’s business.” “To drop $1400 a year interest on a good note?” “It would have cost the Trust Company more than that to carry you.” “I don’t get the point, Martin.” “Deutscher Club account. Emil Bausch’s account. Henry Vogt. Arndt & Niebuhr. Stockmuller--Have I said enough?” “They would have withdrawn? Are they as sore as that?” “One of these days you’ll realize the truth of what I told you about committing hara-kiri, Jem. There’s only one safe way with the Germans. Let them alone and they’ll let you alone.” “Oh! Will they! That shows how one-sidedly you look at it. They’ve begun flooding the office already with their press-work for the winter Singing Society festival.”