“Oh, their contracts are all made. Trust Verrall for that.”
“Doubtless. But will they hold? I understand they specified an issue of July 5th.”
“What of it?” said Jeremy wearily. “The advertisers will make new contracts. You could n’t pry ’em away from that twenty-five thousand circulation at the low rate given.”
“Who knows what the morrow may bring forth?” said the lawyer oracularly. “‘I could a tale unfold’—” He stopped, with a large gesture.
“There’s always a cloven hoof that goes with your kind of tail,” retorted Jeremy. “But if you’ve really got anything cheery up your sleeve, spring it. I could do with a little cheering-up right now. That postponement of publication is a good start. What’s next?”
“My son, the less you know just now, the better. But I’ll tell you this: Some of us who are—well—interested in The Guardian, for reasons of our own, are skating on the thin edge of conspiracy, treason, stratagem, and crime, as it is. Do you want in? You do not want in! You stay out and keep a stiff upper lip. Can’t use any of our spare cash? No! Well, if your neck was a little stiffer it’d break! Good-bye, and hang on!”
All of which Jeremy promptly retailed to the faithful Galpin with the comment:
“Something’s certainly up, but how much is for us, and how much for Clark, Dana & Company, I don’t know.”
“You got a mean, suspicious sort of mind, Boss,” grinned the general manager. “But I admit I don’t get that bunch yet.”
“Nor I. But I’m watching.”