Jeremy looked sulky. “I figured it out on a basis of advertising and circulation.”
“Oh, hell! You poor innocent!” These unpalatable observations he left his caller to digest while he retired to wash his face. In the act of lacing up his left boot he remarked: “You could have got it for fifty. Fifty-five at the outside.”
“It ought to make eight thousand a year.”
“On paper,” was Galpin’s laconic comment. He looked up from his right boot. “Its advertising rate card is all bunk. Rotten with rebates.”
“Oh!” said Jeremy blankly. “Anyway, it can be made to make money,” he added, recovering.
“Maybe. How much reserve have you got?”
“Oh, about fifteen thousand.”
“It’ll eat that in the first year,” observed Galpin, slipping into his suspenders.
A dismayed silence fell between the friends. “Well, come on,” said Jeremy finally.
“I’m afraid I’ll spoil your appetite.”