“If it’s a question of Barclay & Bull withdrawing their advertising or The Guardian withdrawing its news policy, we’ll have to hump along without the advertising.”
“Look here!” The twitchy eyes of Adolph Ahrens focused themselves angrily on the host. “S’pose I go motoring up to Bellair. S’pose I get pinched by a joy constable. S’pose I send around word I want it kept out of the paper. Don’t I get a show?”
“Not a show,” declared Jeremy good-humoredly. “You’re too prominent a character, Mr. Ahrens, not to make good reading.”
From the ventriloqual depths of Mr. Arndt there again emanated that gentleman’s conviction concerning the infernal quality of the note of Mr. Robson’s conversation.
Engel the grocer saw The Guardian’s finish, and made no secret of his prophetic vision.
Aaron Levy, pursuing his trade under the ambitious title of “The Fashion,” expressed the opinion that no man’s business was safe in a town where such practices were permitted.
“Und you maig funny-nesses aboud the Chermans, too,” accused Bernard Stockmuller, the jeweler, unexpectedly.
Vogt came to his support. “That reporter ought to be fired,” he proclaimed. “The one that wrote the police court article about the brewery driver.”
“‘Why, there was no malice in that,” defended Jeremy. “It was all good-natured fun.”
“It wass fun at the Chermans,” declared Stockmuller. “Cherman accents. Cherman ignorances. What you wan ta pigk on the Chermans for, always?”