“Four and a quarter! That’s half a cent above the market, is n’t it?” “All of that.” “What concern did he buy of?” “Oak Lodge Pulp Company.” “Magnus Laurens’s outfit! They never tried anything of the kind on us before. It looks queer, does n’t it!” “Worse than that.” “But, see here, Andy. They can’t make that stick. Half a cent above market for that grade of paper--” “Which grade? There’s the kink. Verrall’s tied us up on a special quality.” “Good God!” said Jeremy. He sat down heavily. A clean blotter on the desk offered him a field for calculations. For a few moments he busied himself with a pencil. When he looked up, his face was queer and drawn. Andrew Galpin waited. “It’ll be a pull, Andy,” said Jeremy. “It’ll be a hell of a pull! It’ll suck the yolk right out of my surplus. But we can pull through yet if--” “If what?” demanded the general manager, for his chief had stopped. “If we can hold the big local advertisers.” Galpin looked down on his employer with sorrowful eyes. He cleared his throat, scratched his head, spat upon the floor, and was apologetic about it; hummed, hawed, and glowered. Jeremy regarded these maneuvers with surprise. “Baby got a pin stickin’ into ums?” he inquired solicitously. “Oh, hell, Boss!” broke out the other. “I hate to tell you. They’re on our trail now. The Botches’ game is working. Ellison, of Ellison Brothers, is in your office waiting to see you.” Jeremy left for his own den and the interview. Visibly ill at ease, the head of Fenchester’s oldest department store rose to greet Jeremy, resumed his seat and proceeded volubly to say a great deal of nothing in particular, about the uncertainty of the business outlook and the necessity, apparent to every thoughtful merchant, of retrenchment. Adjured to get down to details, he painfully brought himself to the point of announcing that Ellison Brothers felt it best to drop out of The Guardian’s columns. “Just temporary, Mr. Robson, you understand,” he said in a tone which assured his auditor that it was nothing of the sort. “We hope to resume soon.” “But, Mr. Ellison,” said Jeremy in dismay, “there must be some reason for this. Is it our editorial course that you object to?” The visitor began to babble unhappily. “No, no, Mr. Robson! You must n’t think that. I--I quite approve of your editorial course. Quite! Personally, I mean to say.... As a merchant--Well, of course, you have been a little hard on our German fellow-citizens. Have n’t you, now? You must admit that, yourself.... Oh, it’s all right, of course! Very praiseworthy, and all that. Loyalty; yes, indeed; loyalty above everything.... But for a business man--We can’t afford--” “Wait a minute, Mr. Ellison. How many of your German customers have given notice to quit you unless you quit The Guardian?” “Oh, none, Mr. Robson,” disclaimed the tremulous Ellison. “None--not in those terms.” “I understand, Mr. Ellison. And I’m rather sorry for you. Who are the boy cotters?”