“We pay for ’em in our advertising bills,” said Friedland, of the Big Shop. “Then you regard them as advertising?” “Certainly.” “But they don’t appear as advertising. They are in regular news type, made up to look like news items, and they carry no a-d-v mark.” Matthew Ellison took it upon his kindly self to enlighten this innocent young adventurer in untried fields. “If they appeared as advertising, the public would be less likely to read them.” “Then they’re a fraud on the public.” “Fraud? Oh, really, Mr. Robson,” deprecated the merchant. “A--a harmless--er--subterfuge.” “The Guardian cuts them out,” announced The Guardian’s revolutionary proprietor. “No more ‘readers’ except with the a-d-v sign, and paid for at full rates.” “What are you trying to do--insult us?” growled the saturnine Mr. Ahrens. “You would have to be mighty thin-skinned to find an insult in that.” “Well, drive us out of the paper, then?” “That would be pretty foolish of me, would n’t it?” “Would be? It _is_. First you violate an agreement--” “To which I was not a party.” “--and then you try to raise rates on us; and now you cut out the best advertising the department store gets.” “As for raising rates, I have n’t suggested it except as an offset to rebates.” “Comes to the same thing,” said several voices. “Gentlemen,” said Jeremy with an accession of positiveness, “you’re getting the best advertising rate in the State of Centralia to-day. With practically ten thousand circulation--” “Bunk!” interjected Turnbull. “Upwards of nine thousand, seven hundred.” “A good third of it pads and graft copies,” put in Betts. For the first time Jeremy was at a disadvantage. He glanced quickly at Galpin. “Nothing of the sort,” declared that gentleman readily. “How much is your list padded?” challenged Vogt the florist, in his slightly thickened accent. “Come on, now! On the level.” “Tell them, Mr. Galpin,” directed Jeremy. “Our cards are on the table.” “I don’t know. But it’s padded all right,” confessed the general manager. “Not a third. Not a quarter. But--well, enough.” For the second time that day Jeremy Robson took a snap resolution. “Appoint a committee to go over the books, Mr. Ellison,” said he. “Make your estimate of _bona fide_ circulation, and I’ll adjust my rate to make it as low per thousand as any daily in the State of equal size. Is that fair?” “Yes. I guess that’s fair enough,” answered the Retailers’ Association president, hesitantly. “That don’t satisfy me,” asserted Ahrens. “What will, Mr. Ahrens?” asked Jeremy politely. “‘Readers,’ like the Great Northwestern’s always had.” “The next time I come to your store to buy a necktie, will you throw in a box of collars?” “It ain’t the same thing.” “Pardon me; it’s precisely the same, considered as a deal. You don’t give people more than they pay for. Why should you expect to get it? All I ask for The Guardian is a living profit on the plant and product.” “Wymett made a living out of it.”