temper, and his heavy brows were wrinkled up in a way calculated to make
the counting-house clerks shake on their stools. Meeson's had a branch
establishment at Sydney, in Australia, which establishment had, until
lately, been paying--it is true not as well as the English one, but,
still, fifteen or twenty per cent. But now a wonder had come to pass. A
great American publishing firm had started an opposition house in
Melbourne, and their "cuteness" was more than the "cuteness" of Meeson.
Did Meeson's publish an edition of the works of any standard author at
threepence per volume the opposition company brought out the same work at
twopence-halfpenny; did Meeson's subsidise a newspaper to puff their
undertakings, the opposition firm subsidised two to cry them down, and so
on. And now the results of all this were becoming apparent: for the
financial year just ended the Australian branch had barely earned a
beggarly net dividend of seven per cent.

No wonder Mr. Meeson was furious, and no wonder that the clerks shook
upon their stools.

"This must be seen into, No. 3," said Mr. Meeson, bringing his fist down
with a bang on to the balance-sheet.

No. 3 was one of the editors; a mild-eyed little man with blue
spectacles. He had once been a writer of promise; but somehow Meeson's
had got him for its own, and turned him into a publisher's hack.

"Quite so, Sir," he said humbly. "It is very bad--it is dreadful to think
of Meeson's coming down to seven per cent--seven per cent!" and he held
up his hands.

"Don't stand there like a stuck pig, No. 3," said Mr. Meeson, fiercely;