“Wait a minute, Mr. Ellison. How many of your German customers have given notice to quit you unless you quit The Guardian?”
“Oh, none, Mr. Robson,” disclaimed the tremulous Ellison. “None—not in those terms.”
“I understand, Mr. Ellison. And I’m rather sorry for you. Who are the boy cotters?”
“Oh, really, Mr. Robson, I could n’t—”
“No. Of course, you could n’t. By the way, you’re an American, are you, Mr. Ellison?”
The merchant drew himself up. “My folks have been in this country for seven generations. Why do you ask?”
“Just to be disagreeable,” replied the other softly, and left Ellison to make what he could out of it.
Bad though this was, the owner of The Guardian comforted himself with one assurance. No store in Fenchester could do business by advertising in The Record alone, against other stores which advertised in both papers. Therefore, Ellison Brothers would soon discover, in the harsh light of decreasing trade, that they could not afford to ignore The Guardian. Unless, indeed, the other stores also—Before the thought was fairly concluded, Jeremy had seized his hat and set out to obtain instant confirmation or refutation of his fears. His natural source of enlightenment was the loyal Betts, of Kelter & Betts, but Betts was out of town. The next store was The Great Northwestern. There could hardly have been a worse choice from one point of view, for the Ahrenses had from the first resented The Guardian’s independence, and, moreover, were members of the Deutscher Club in good and regular standing. But Jeremy was in a hurry. Friend or enemy, it made no great difference, if he could arrive at the facts. In the seclusion of his inner office, Adolph Ahrens bade his visitor sit down, with an anticipative smile.
“I ain’t seen you,” he said slowly, “since that elegant hyphen editorial, to congrach’late you on it.”
This was Refined Sarcasm, according to the Ahrensian standard.