“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.”