“What do you?”
“Pretty well satisfied, thank you. We’ve got fourteen thousand circulation that you could n’t pry loose with a crow-bar.”
“Could n’t we? I’m not going to try.”
“Not going to? You have tried. You’ve stepped on every cussed one of their cussed toes, one time or another. Dam’ fi don’t think you’ve got ’em so they like it.”
“Queer way they’ve got of showing it, then. Do you ever read the editorial correspondence?”
“Oh, that’s all right!” The general manager waved such matters loftily away. “They quit the paper, sore. Then they get over it and come back. If they don’t, there’s plenty of others to take their places. Even the Dutchers”—this being, at the time, Mr. Galpin’s term indicative of that powerful and flourishing organization, the Deutscher Club—“have come around.”
“Not all of them. Stockmuller is out still.”
“He’s a stiff-neck. He’s the only one.”
“Not the only advertiser. The Laundry Association have never got over Wong Kee, the yellow peril. The Emporium takes as little space as possible. And I don’t notice the P.-U. crowding any contracts on us, Andy.”
“Verrall tells me they’re coming back. At least, they’re showing flirtatious signs.”