Ahrens and two of the others forgot to bid Jeremy good-bye. When all had left, the giver of the feast turned to his lieutenant. “Well, they know where we stand. How many advertisers will it lose us?” “I don’t know that it’ll lose us any, right away.” “Ahrens, surely.” “Don’t believe it. He’ll be afraid to drop out. He don’t understand your go-to-hell attitude.” “Was I as bad as that, Andy?” “I’m taking his point of view. He don’t understand it, and probably he don’t believe it. Thinks it’s bluff. But he’s scared and he’s cautious. So he’ll stay in--for a while, anyway. What we’ve got to do in the long run, is to keep ’em all scared.” “Going in for blackmail, Andy?” smiled his boss. “Keep ’em scared, by making the paper so strong that they dassent do without it.” “That means more circulation.” “It means more circulation, a lot of it, and pretty darn quick. That’s my job.” Arrived at the office, Jeremy got his final glimpse of the day into the ramifications of advertising. In his editorial sanctum waited a mild, self-possessed, and profoundly laconic Chinaman. “Take ad?” inquired he. “Your ad? What is it?” “Laundry.” He proffered a neat and competently prepared two-inch single column “card,” announcing that Wong Kee stood ready to perform high-class laundering for the discerning public at reasonable prices. “All right. Take it to the Advertising window.” “No good.” “Why not?” “Turn down.” “Nonsense!” “Chinese laundry. Turn down,” asseverated Wong Kee evenly. “When did you try?” “Nineteen-eight. Nineteen-nine. Nineteen-ten. Nineteen-eleven.” “Every year? Nineteen-twelve wins.” Jeremy marked “Must J. R.” on the copy and sent the satisfied Celestial downstairs. On the following morning, eight local professional apostles of cleanliness, comprising the Laundry Association of Fenchester, indignantly notified The Guardian of the withdrawal of their patronage. “Even the laundrymen want to edit the paper for us,” the disgusted Jeremy observed to Galpin. “Well, they can stay out till hell breaks loose under the State of Centralia.” As a matter of fact, that is exactly what they did. CHAPTER II NO advertising patronage was lost to The Guardian as the result of the luncheon-conference. But Jeremy Robson’s offer to let a committee investigate his circulation was costly. More than fifteen per cent of The Guardian’s list proved either “phony” or dubious. Jeremy reconstituted his rate card in accordance with the actual figures, and cut recklessly into his free list. Appeased by this practical and to them profitable concession, the Retailers’ Association abandoned the issue of rebates. For the time, at least, they accepted the new proprietor’s distasteful decision as to “readers.” The matter of “courtesies” extended to advertisers was left in abeyance. That was sure to come up in the inevitable course of events. The general status was that of a truce, with one side wary and the other disgruntled.