CLICK-CLICK! Click-click! Clickety-click! One hundred pairs of knitting needles furnished a subdued castanet accompaniment to the voice of a long, lean lady-droner who stood upon the platform of the Fenchester Club Auditorium, and read from a typed list. At times she referred to various issues of The Guardian ranged on a flag-bedecked table. And at times the clickers paused to make notes in small books wherewith they had provided themselves for that very purpose. The gathering was the every morning meeting of the Fenchester Ladies War Reading Club. Socially it was a comprehensively representative gathering, and something more. Pretty much every family whose comings and goings were wont to be entered (by Buddy Higman or some other arbiter of the elegancies) in The Guardian’s Society Notes had at least one member present. Sprinkled among the women who made up the active list of membership were a few associate members, mere males, and in the presiding officer’s chair sat Mr. Montrose Clark; for, after the regular proceedings of the day, special business was in order. Miss Rappelje, the secretary, read from her list: “Nicholas Engel, grocer. Last year, two columns a week, average. Since The Fair Dealer announcement, half a column.” The castanet chorus diminished while the knitters and crocheters entered a note against Herr Engel’s grocery. “The Fliess Brewing Company,” continued the reader. “Last year five columns; now, none.” “Hurray for Prohibition! Beer’s a German drink anyway,” cried a voice, and there was a wave of laughter as the clicking resumed. “The Great Northwestern Stores. Last year three full pages, regularly, and on special sales as high as five--” “Pardon me.” A member rose in the center of the house. “Mr. Ahrens sent a representative to tell me that, in spite of unsettled conditions, they have contracted to use more space in The Guardian than ever before, and to ask me to report it here.” “Let ’em!” commented a determined and ominous voice. “I shall wait and see.” From the murmur of assent which greeted this, it was evident that many would wait and see. So the reading went on, through dairies, laundries, undertakers, soft drinks, ice dealers, stationers, milliners, garages, all the lines of industry which bid in print for trade, while the knitters alternately toiled and made their notes. Outside, in a small anteroom off the stage, Mr. Jeremy Robson put his obstinate head down and balked. Ten days’ enforced rest, except for his one escape, had gone far to restore him to fitness. Now he fended off Judge Selden Dana and demanded enlightenment. “Not a step farther till I know what I’m up against,” he declared. “All you have to do,” returned the lawyer soothingly, “is to trust to me and do as I tell you.” “Is that all!” retorted Jeremy, with intent. “Who are these people outside and what are they doing?” “They’re your well-earned enemies, and they’re saving the paper for you.”