The Spotless Laundry. J. Corby, Prop’r._ “At least we’re making a few friends,” Jeremy commented. “The trouble is, they’re not organized. Our enemies are. It’s organization that counts.” Friends counted, too, however, in practical as well as in moral support, and they materialized in the least expected quarters. The Emporium, which since the early quarrel had withheld all but occasional special-sale advertising, now came in with a full contract. “And I take off my hat to The Guardian,” said the obstinate and combative Peter Turnbull. “I’ve learned to do that when I see the flag passing by, no matter who carries it!” Barclay & Bull restored their full original space and added to it. No comment accompanied the order. But Galpin went around to the store to explain that The Guardian understood and appreciated. Then there was Aaron Levy, of The Fashion, who had never forgiven The Guardian’s attitude toward his installment trade. The dogged, hard-bitted, driving Jew came to The Guardian office and was received by Andrew Galpin. “Mr. Galpin, I hear Ellison Brothers is out.” “Ay-ah. They are.” “What for?” “Did n’t you hear that, too?” “I heard something.” “What you heard is right.” “Mr. Galpin,” said Levy slowly. “I been running a two-inch three-time card in The Guardian.” “Yep.” “It ain’t that I want to; but it brings trade. It’s small; but it’d have been smaller if I could afford to make it. You know why.” “Sure.” “Now I hear there’s a new paper coming in. I gotta go into that. That’s business.” “Ay-ah.” “But I’m going to stay with you. That’s business too. And I’m going to double my space and go in daily. That ain’t business; but--but you know why?” “I do not.” “Mr. Galpin, I’m a Jew. I was raised on kicks and crusts in Mitteldorf. I came here a boy and got a living chance. I’m worth fifty thousand dollars to-day. I can’t fight, myself; but I’ll help any man who fights the Germans, at home or over there. You have, maybe, all the fight you can handle, and more. Yes? Well, that’s my help. No; you don’t have to thank me. It ain’t for that. I don’t like you or your paper any more after the war is over.” He stumped out, leaving in The Guardian office a vivid contrast in practical patriotism between an Ellison seven generations in the United States, and a Levy, German-born and American-hearted. Even among the Germans of a certain type the strange reactions of the war dissolved old enmities. Coming out of the Post-Office one evening, Jeremy found himself approaching Blasius, the little German-born hatter, who had withdrawn his thrice-a-week announcement from The Guardian, after the Lusitania editorial. Upon sighting the editor, Blasius squared his shoulders to a Prussian stiffness, set his lips, and all but goose-stepped up to the other. “I wish to say a word to you,” he announced precisely. “Say it.” “Those Deutscher Clubbers; they are after you--not?” “They are. Are you?”