“Mild, Andy, mild! Verrall’s got a list of thirty-seven quits by this morning’s mail. He’ll die of heart-failure superinduced by bad circulation if you and I don’t stop running this paper into the ground.” “Verrall’s an earnest soul,” observed the general manager, “but he’s always on the borderland of hysteria, and if an advertiser looks cross at him, over he flops.” “Yes. He had an ‘attack’ this morning. Blasius is out.” “Entirely?” “Five inches double; three times a week. Gone glimmering into the jaws of Hun ruthlessness.” “Any one else?” “Threats of reduced space. If only they dared, Andy, what would n’t they do to us! But they need us in their business.” Confirmation in part of Verrall’s dismal forebodings came from Arthur Betts, of Kelter & Betts, who dropped in to see Jeremy. Since the first struggle with the Retailers’ Association, Betts had proved himself a “good sport,” as he would have wished to have it put, in admitting The Guardian’s right to editorial independence, which did not in any measure inhibit him from trying to “put one over” on the paper whenever he thought that he saw a chance. That was part of the game. Though usually worsted, he sometimes succeeded in landing a bit of free advertising. But, like a sound opponent, he had become a strong partisan of Jeremy as against the field. “You sure put it to the German lot in that editorial,” he observed with a shining eye. “They had it coming to them,” returned Jeremy. “Right! But they’re sore clean through. Any cancellations?” “Blasius.” “Yep. He’s a dachshund all right. Do you know what they’re stirring up in the Retailers’ Association?” “No.” “This is rank treason and betrayal of secrets and so on; but they’re talking down your circulation. Are you losing much?” “Some.” “Enough for ’em to demand a lower rate?” “They can demand. They won’t get it. We’ve got a comfortable margin left.” “Well, of course I’m for it, officially. Here’s another point. Some of our customers are beginning to talk to the salespeople and department heads about The Guardian. ‘Do you advertise in that paper? What do you do that for? It’s no good. Waste of money. I would n’t believe a thing I read in it, not even an ad.’ You know the line of stuff.” Jeremy did know it and knew how dangerous it was. “Who are they?” he asked. “Hans, Fritz, and Wilhelm,” grinned the other. “They are n’t scaring us. But you may get a kick-back from some of the other stores that are timider than we are.” “I’ll keep an eye out, Betts,” said the editor. Thus the anti-Guardian campaign simmered, bearing testimony to a steady fire and a slow boiling beneath the surface. Said Judge Selden Dana to Montrose Clark: “Our young cub of The Guardian is getting in wronger every day. I think a polite call is about due.” CHAPTER V