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.