“We don’t, Mr. Stockmuller. That’s absurd. We’d print an Irish dialect story just as quickly. In fact we do, frequently.”
“You should understand,” said Blasius the hatter, heavily, “that we Germans are as good citizens as anybody else.”
“Granted, but—”
“And priddy heavy advertisers in The Guardian.” This was Vogt’s contribution.
Jeremy began to lose his temper. “Gentlemen,” said he sharply, “if you take over the job of running The Guardian as you seem to wish to do, where do I come in?”
“Easy! Friendly!” pacified Ellison. “No use in getting excited.”
“Thinks he can run the town,” growled Ahrens.
“There is much in Mr. Robson’s point of view,” continued the pourer of oil. “And I am sure that he will concede the force of much that has been said upon the other side. In any case I am sure we have all come to a better understanding, and that we thank Mr. Robson most appreciatively for his bounteous hospitality. And, now, gentlemen, I propose that we—er—adjourn.”
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?”