“Oh, really, Mr. Robson, I could n’t--” “No. Of course, you could n’t. By the way, you’re an American, are you, Mr. Ellison?” The merchant drew himself up. “My folks have been in this country for seven generations. Why do you ask?” “Just to be disagreeable,” replied the other softly, and left Ellison to make what he could out of it. Bad though this was, the owner of The Guardian comforted himself with one assurance. No store in Fenchester could do business by advertising in The Record alone, against other stores which advertised in both papers. Therefore, Ellison Brothers would soon discover, in the harsh light of decreasing trade, that they could not afford to ignore The Guardian. Unless, indeed, the other stores also--Before the thought was fairly concluded, Jeremy had seized his hat and set out to obtain instant confirmation or refutation of his fears. His natural source of enlightenment was the loyal Betts, of Kelter & Betts, but Betts was out of town. The next store was The Great Northwestern. There could hardly have been a worse choice from one point of view, for the Ahrenses had from the first resented The Guardian’s independence, and, moreover, were members of the Deutscher Club in good and regular standing. But Jeremy was in a hurry. Friend or enemy, it made no great difference, if he could arrive at the facts. In the seclusion of his inner office, Adolph Ahrens bade his visitor sit down, with an anticipative smile. “I ain’t seen you,” he said slowly, “since that elegant hyphen editorial, to congrach’late you on it.” This was Refined Sarcasm, according to the Ahrensian standard. “The events since have backed it up,” said Jeremy shortly. “Must be great,” surmised the other, “to be a big enough Smart-Allick to rough up decent folks’ feelings whenever you want to.” “There was nothing in what I wrote to offend any good American.” “I guess you ain’t the only good American in Fenchester! I guess I’m as good an American as you are, if I have got a German name. You ain’t an American! You’re a England-lover and a German-hater.” “Perhaps you have n’t heard that we are at war with Germany, Mr. Ahrens,” said Jeremy with rising color. “We’ve been at war for three weeks.” “Never mind your funny jokes with me! I know about the war. Does that make you right to insult every German--German-American, I mean? You think you got us merchants where you want us with your verfluchter--your be-dammt paper. Well, you ain’t! Not any more. I got somethin’ to tell you about next year’s contract.” “Tell it.” “I’ll tell it, all right,” jeered the other. “I’ll tell you where you get off. Half of last year’s contract. Not a line more.” “That’s less than The Guardian’s fair share.” “Surprisin’, ain’t it?” snarled the other. “Yes, it is. Unless on the theory that you expect a decrease in your trade.” Ahrens flushed. “Not in our trade,” he asserted; “in yours. The Guardian’s a losing proposition.”