True to his word, Steve Gaston used Russell more gingerly on Tuesday, and Russell, who was still aching in many places, was grateful. Just the same, he was not entirely satisfied when, after a twenty-minute practice line-up between the two scrub squads, the second crossed the field to the first team gridiron and he made the discovery that it was Tierney who was to play right end. It takes more than a few pains to reconcile your enthusiastic football player to the bench – or, in this case, the sod. And yesterday’s short taste of the game had reawakened all of Russell’s old ardor. But he wasn’t to be quite neglected, for in the middle of the second twelve-minute period of battle Tierney was laid low, with every bit of breath eliminated from his body, and Gaston sent a quick call across the field for Russell. Back in the game, facing the redoubtable Captain Proctor or warily watching Crocker, at left end on the enemy team, Russell forgot his aches and entered lustily into the fray. Crocker proved a troublesome opponent that afternoon, for the first was trying out a “bunch forward” in which, when the play was made to the left, Crocker and Harmon and Browne participated, or sought to. Russell, aided by Reilly, had an anxious and breathless time of it. It is to their credit, though, that the “bunch” succeeded but twice and then on the other side of the field. First scored but once to-day, and only after a blocked kick on the scrub’s thirty-six yards, when Putney, the first team right tackle, grabbed up the bouncing pigskin and marvelously dashed through half the enemy forces and planted it behind the line. The second had two tries at goal from the field, and Kendall missed both. On the whole, however, the second was fairly well satisfied with the afternoon, and even Gaston looked as though he spied a glint of hope in the clouds of adversity.

That evening Russell’s thoughts turned wistfully toward a nice clean cot in the school infirmary, and every time he moved he groaned either in spirit or very audibly, depending on whether or not he was alone. Yet life held its cheering aspects, for Stick had jubilantly reported three sales during the afternoon, which, combined with Jimmy’s sale of the tennis racket, brought the day’s business up to the colossal sum of thirteen dollars and eighty-three cents, a sum hitherto never even approached. Jimmy came in after supper and the three talked the matter over in detail and with much enthusiasm. Stick forgot to be pessimistic and swung to the other extreme. His sales had been to high school fellows, and he had discovered that there were two hundred and twenty-two of them in this year’s enrollment and proceeded to prove, to his own satisfaction at least, that the high school students were due to enrich the firm of Emerson and Patterson to the tune of one dollar and eighty-seven cents, net, every day until the middle of next June.

“I guess,” said Russell when that fact had been thoroughly demonstrated by the very earnest Stick, “that that advertisement we put in the high school paper fetched those fellows. It might be a good plan to keep it running.”

But Stick didn’t see that. Advertising cost a heap of money, and now that the ball had been started rolling there wasn’t any sense in going on with it. “Those fellows will tell other fellows,” he asserted, “and that’s the best sort of advertising there is.”

“We are advertised by our loving friends,” quoted Jimmy.

Russell agreed to discontinue the high school advertisement, but he was firm for going on with the one in The Doubleay, and Stick dubiously agreed to that wasteful course. Jimmy described once more with great gusto the details concerning the sale of the tennis racket – they laughingly referred to it as “the” racket, since it had been the only one in stock – and predicted that much trade would accrue from Mount Millard School as a result of his brilliant acumen.

“We might,” began Russell, “put an ad. in their paper – ” But Stick’s unhappy frown cut him short, and he dropped the subject and turned back to Jimmy. “You keep talking about six and a quarter,” he said perplexedly. “You mean six and a half, don’t you?”

“Eh? Oh, the price of it! Yes, yes, six and a half. I was thinking about the discount, I guess.”

“But the discount brought it to five-eighty-five.”

“Yes, well – you see, I’m an awful ass at figures,” answered Jimmy desperately. Not for worlds would he have had Russell know that he had mulcted himself of that twenty-three cents!

“Well, I don’t know what you think about it, Stick,” said Russell, “but I believe Jimmy has brought us luck!”

And Stick, rather unwillingly, agreed.

And as time went on that conviction strengthened with Russell. By the end of that week business had picked up enormously at the Sign of the Football. There had come a letter from Mount Millard ordering “one of those rakets like George Titus bought from you resently,” and as the money was enclosed Russell didn’t find it incumbent on him to criticize the spelling. High school boys were frequent visitors in the afternoons. They didn’t always buy, but those who didn’t spread the news and others came in their places. Another football had found its way to the Academy, and more and more Altonians were learning to enter under the alluring sign rather than to proceed a few doors further to the more pretentious House of Crocker. All this was vastly cheering to Russell and to Stick, and hardly less so to Jimmy, who, if not one of the firm, was nevertheless fully as interested in the success of the business as either of the others. Sid Greenwood had dropped in one morning when Russell was there and had looked and talked and pored over catalogues, and it was already an assured fact that the Sign of the Football was to have the patronage of the Basket Ball Team. And Bob Coolidge had broadly hinted but a few days later that it would be a good plan for Russell to put in a few sample hockey sticks and skates and so on; and Russell had duly ordered. Ordering was a regular daily performance now. Fellows were very good-natured about waiting a day or so, which was certainly fortunate, for only occasionally as yet did the store have just what was wanted! Russell or Stick or Jimmy would open an empty box, out of sight of the customer, frown, put it back, open a second and then shake his head. “Sorry, but we haven’t your size,” he would announce apologetically, or, “We’ve sold the last one.” Always, though, such a remark was invariably followed promptly by a reassuring: “They’re on order and will be along to-morrow. If you don’t mind dropping in about half-past four it’ll be here.” The New York train that carried the noon mail and express reached Alton at four. It took only fifteen or twenty minutes to get the goods from the post office or express company, and at four-thirty the customer went away contentedly. There was a slim black-covered book behind the counter and into this the orders went, and some time before six o’clock Russell would take himself to the telephone office and call up the New York dealer. Seldom did the dealer disappoint him.

Money was coming in now, but money was also going out, and the balance in the firm’s name at the bank was growing very slowly. Stick frowned often and darkly at the size of the orders that were despatched to the city and still more darkly at the checks drawn in settlement for them. But even Stick’s economical brain couldn’t find any way of selling goods without ordering them or of ordering them without ultimately paying for them. Meanwhile Jimmy was becoming a salesman of ability, to say nothing of poise. Jimmy had a way of selling a nose-guard as though it were a diamond set in platinum, and no purchaser of so small an item as a tennis ball went away without feeling that he had been treated like a person of importance and had somehow unintentionally managed to get the best of the transaction.

Russell’s aches left him gradually and by the end of that week he had fairly beaten out Tierney for the position at the right end of the second team line. The first team found their daily opponent a harder and harder proposition, and on Friday, for the first time, the scrimmage ended without a score for either side. To be sure, only one twelve-minute period was played, but even so —

The big team made its first trip away from home the next day and played Lorimer Academy. Lorimer had last year held Alton to a 3 to 3 tie, and an easy contest was neither expected nor found. At the end of the first half the opponents were even, with a touchdown and goal each. In spite of the story told by the score, Alton had showed rather better work, and the ball had, save for one brief and regrettable period, remained in Lorimer territory. The regrettable period had occurred at the beginning of the game, when, receiving the ball on the kick-off, Lorimer had brought it back to Alton’s forty-one yards. That unexpected feat had quite nonplused the visitors and during the next series of plays they showed that it had, for two gains had been made through the left of their line for a first down on the thirty-yard line. From there, following an attempt at Putney that yielded a scant stride, Lorimer threw forward to the fifteen-yard line where an unwatched half-back caught and, although chased down by Harley McLeod, managed to fall across the last line mark just inside the boundary. There was some discussion as to whether the runner had not gone out before he got the ball over, but the officials gave him the benefit of the doubt. Lorimer kicked the goal easily.

After that Alton had pulled herself together, quickly wrested the pigskin from the enemy and taken the offensive. There was, though, no score for her until the second period was well along. Then a long, hard march from the center of the field to Lorimer’s eighteen yards culminated in a series of smashing attacks on the enemy’s left by Harmon and Moncks, and on the seventh play the ball went over. Captain Proctor kicked the goal.

When the third quarter started Lorimer showed the benefit of the rest and, possibly, of the coach’s tuition. She kicked off to the Gray-and-Gold and her ends spilled Ned Richards on his ten-yard line. After two running plays that failed to advance, Alton punted to Lorimer’s forty. Lorimer pulled a trick play that went for twelve yards around the opponent’s left end. A jab at the center was wasted and her quarter punted diagonally to Alton’s eight yards where Harmon gathered in the ball but was forced outside after a few strides. The pigskin was too near home for comfort, and Ned Richards stepped aside in favor of Browne on second down and Browne punted to midfield. Again Lorimer tried a quarter-back kick and again gained. Ned Richards, waiting for the ball to bound over the goal line for a touchback, saw it change its mind erratically and start back up the field. He fell on it finally near the five-yard line, with, by that time, most of the Lorimer forwards hovering about him.

Alton decided to kick on first down, and Browne stepped back behind the goal posts. Nichols passed low and the full-back punt was necessarily hurried. The ball sailed high in the air and descended near the twenty-yard line, and the Lorimer back who caught it very carefully stepped outside, since there was no chance for an advance. The pigskin was stepped in and Lorimer found herself in the fortunate position of being in possession of the ball on first down on the enemy’s nineteen yards. A fake attack to the left, with left half running to the right took the ball to the center of the field, although for no gain. Lorimer prepared for a placement kick from close to the thirty yards, but the pigskin was taken by quarter through Stimson for two. Again, on third down, the same preparations were carefully gone through with, and this time the ball went back to the kicker, instead of the holder, and then was hurled through the air to where, one foot over the goal line, an end had stationed himself. It was a pretty pass, well concealed, well thrown and well caught, and although Harmon brought down the catcher promptly the touchdown was accomplished. Again Lorimer kicked the goal.

Alton was chagrined and rather angry. It was very evident that, since her defense against the opponent’s forward passing game was not good enough, the opponent must not be allowed again within scoring distance of the goal. It was extremely trying, extremely exasperating to be twice scored on by a team who was plainly unable to gain consistently by rushing! Coach Cade seized the interim following the goal to remove Crocker from left end and to substitute Rhame and to put Johnson at right tackle in place of Putney who was showing the battle. The third period ended in a punting duel between Browne, for Alton, and Snow, for Lorimer, and when the teams changed sides it was Alton’s ball on her thirty-four yards.

There was then a slight advantage in the possession of the south goal, for a breeze had arisen since the beginning of the half and was blowing, at moments quite strongly, toward the other end of the field. Austen had replaced Harmon, and to Jimmy was handed the task of using that breeze to work the team’s way inside the enemy’s first defenses. As a prelude, Moncks took the ball and managed to batter through left guard for four yards. Then Jimmy punted and, getting height, saw the breeze take a hand in his effort and add a good ten yards to the kick. Rhame was on the catcher almost before the ball had landed in his arms. Lorimer tried two attempts outside tackle and then punted in turn. But Alton had gained nearly ten yards on the exchange, and, after a first down that netted barely a yard gain, Jimmy again stepped back and, the Gray-and-Gold line holding well, punted with his customary deliberateness and again got more than fifty yards. This time Lorimer ran the pigskin back across one white line before she was stopped. Lorimer recognized the futility of pitting her punter against Alton’s in the circumstances, but, with her back to her goal, there was no help for it after two desperate rushes had been stopped for five yards, and again the ball sailed off. This time the kick was weak and Appel, who had just relieved Richards, caught it on Lorimer’s forty-seven yards and, feinting and twirling, cut across the field with it, found open territory for a moment and sped along to the thirty-five before his meteoric career was stopped.

That proved the result that Alton had sought. From the thirty-five yards to the twenty she went in four rushes. There she was slowed up and a short forward pass, Browne to McLeod, was used as a last resort and did the business. After that, with a small coterie of devoted Altonians begging for a touchdown, the result was not long in doubt. Still smarting over her indignities, Alton hammered and thrust, and, reaching the six yards in two downs, hurled Moncks past left tackle for half the remaining distance and then literally piled through the center of the Lorimer line and deposited Appel and the ball well over the last mark.

Unfortunately, Mart Proctor missed the goal miserably, and the handful of Alton supporters groaned. Lorimer was still one point ahead and the time was getting short. Captain Proctor gave way to Butler and Linthicum went in for Browne. During the remaining minutes several more changes were made in the Alton line-up, so that when the last whistle blew the Gray-and-Gold presented a thoroughly second-string appearance.

Lorimer fought for time now, fought to keep the opponent away from scoring territory, punting even on first down and against that breeze. But she didn’t have many chances to put boot leather to pigskin, for Alton was through with the kicking game. Lorimer was beatable by surer methods, and Alton returned to rushing. Twice her backs got almost free around the Lorimer ends and once Linthicum found a barn-door opening in the center and staggered through for twelve yards. With the time-keeper’s watch showing something less than two minutes left, the ball was Alton’s on the home team’s thirty-six. Appel held a whispered conference with Rowlandson, who had succeeded to the captaincy, and then sprung a surprise. Linthicum was sent back to kicking position and, since a field-goal would win the game for Alton, Lorimer never doubted that, with the time nearly up, a drop-kick would follow. But Jimmy Austen got the ball when it left center and Jimmy found as many holes in front of him as there are in a sieve and proceeded to ooze through one of them. And, being through, he kept right on oozing, just how no one, least of all Jimmy, could have afterwards told. But he oozed faster and faster. In fact, the ooze became a trickle and then a spurt, and, escaping a tackle here and dodging an enemy there, turning, twisting, as elusive as a drop of quicksilver, Jimmy somehow kept going straight for the goal and somehow got there, got there without having been once tackled, got there through the whole enemy team and with never a bit of aid from his own side! And, having got there, Jimmy put the ball down, hunched his shoulders and philosophically and even smilingly bore the useless onslaught of the infuriated enemy.

It didn’t matter that Rowlandson missed the goal. No one expected him to make it, certainly not Rowlandson, for he was no goal expert and, as he put it, became the goat only for lack of some one better qualified. He managed to send the ball between the posts, but only because the line of discouraged opponents hadn’t enough interest left to put up a hand and stop it!

There was one more kick-off and four more plays, and then the game was over. Every fellow loves a hero, and so, for quite a week, Jimmy Austen wore the laurels. And doubtless he deserved them, although, as Jimmy explained often enough during the next forty-eight hours, no one but a cripple could have failed to make that touchdown! “Their old line was full of holes,” said Jimmy. “They were all set for a try-at-goal and came pouring through as soon as the ball was off. All I had to do was hug the old turnip and let ’em by. Then I side-stepped a couple and took it across. There’s no sense in making a fuss about it!”

But they did – for a while. In football there’s a new hero, of larger or smaller caliber, every week or so, and Jimmy’s fame only lived until the Hillsport game the following Saturday, when Ned Richards sprinted sixty-odd yards for the score that evened up matters in the third period and turned what looked horribly like defeat into a 6 to 6 tie.

CHAPTER XV
MR. CROCKER CALLS

Russell didn’t see the Loring game, although there was no second team practice that afternoon to prevent. Instead he took Stick’s place in the store, allowing that youth to put in an afternoon at tennis, the only kind of physical exertion he approved of. Russell was glad that he had done this long before closing time arrived, for he spent a very busy time at the Sign of the Football. There was one heart-stirring quarter of an hour when, by actual count, seven customers lined the counter! Russell surreptitiously counted the throng a second time, incredulously certain that he had overestimated. Even femininity invaded the store when two high school girls came in search of sweaters. Russell, always shy in the presence of the opposite sex, was all thumbs when it came to displaying his wares and, for the first time, wished that he had not relieved Stick. Stick wouldn’t be disturbed in the least by the whole female population of Alton! Nothing, pursued Russell in his thoughts, as he clumsily brought a pile of boxes crashing down on his head, ever did disturb Stick much except an attack on his pocketbook.

The two young ladies were extremely self-possessed and viewed Russell’s embarrassment with a sort of kindly contempt. The boy’s first hopeful announcement that they carried no girls’ sweaters failed of the effect he desired. They did not, they explained calmly, want girls’ sweaters, but boys’ sweaters. After that there was nothing for it but to display wares, falteringly explain why the garments were priced half a dollar higher than similar garments purchased by the fair customers in New Haven two years before and resist a horrible temptation to wipe the perspiration from his brow. Russell heaped the counter high with boxes – some of them, of course, empty – and got very much mixed in the matter of sizes and prices. In the end, when the shoppers severely declared that they would take two of the sweaters but couldn’t think of paying the price set for them, Russell weakly but, oh, so gladly knocked off a quarter of a dollar, almost frantically wrapped the parcels up, overlooked a discrepancy of a nickel in one payment, and, had not courtesy forbade, would have joyously pushed them out the door.

When they were at last gone, he wiped his forehead, sighed deeply with heartfelt relief and wondered if it would not be a good idea to hang a card in the window with some such inscription on it as “Gentlemen Only” or “No Females Need Apply”! After that he sold a pair of woolen hose to an Alton chap and two tennis balls to a tall bespectacled gentleman who, Russell suspected, was the “Painless Dentist” further down the street. The hour for closing was nearing and Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer, who had been leaning in a sort of trance over his books in the wire cage since four o’clock, moved and sighed loudly. Then followed business of locking a drawer with much jangling of keys, the clanging of the cage door and the florist set his hat on his head, looked dubiously at the single light in the further window – Mr. Pulsifer never lighted his window – took three boxes from the glass-fronted case at the back of the store and passed out with a dismal “good night.” Those three boxes, which, Russell concluded, Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer was going to deliver in person, appeared to constitute the day’s business of the florist’s establishment. Russell wondered whether it was possible that the dejected gentleman made money over his expenses. It didn’t seem that he could, for the few orders that came to him surely did amount to more than thirty dollars a week. Russell’s thoughts were still on Mr. Pulsifer when the doorway was darkened by a large, thickset man in a suit of black and a wide-brimmed felt hat of the same color. When he came into the light from the window Russell recognized him.

“Good evening, Mr. Crocker,” he said politely.

Mr. Crocker replied affably and then looked curiously about him. “Your name’s Emerson, I take it,” he said finally. “Nice little establishment you’ve got here.”

Russell agreed, although he saw quite plainly that the visitor didn’t think it a nice little establishment at all, that, on the contrary, he had viewed it rather contemptuously.

“Thought,” continued the hardware merchant, “I’d stop in and have a word or two with you.”

“Very kind, I’m sure,” murmured Russell.

“Well, I’m an old hand at the selling game, Mr. Emerson, and I’ve learned one or two things you haven’t – yet. You’re young and, I guess you won’t mind my saying so, inexperienced.”

“Not in the least, sir.”

“Exactly,” pursued the other, interpreting the boy’s reply to suit himself. “Now I’m always glad to help young fellows like you who are just starting out for themselves. I’ve done it many times. Us older men mustn’t forget that we owe a duty to youth and inexperience. That’s why I dropped in, Mr. Emerson.” Mr. Crocker had thrust his hands into the pockets of a pair of capacious trousers and was observing Russell smilingly across the counter. “Now you and I are in the same line of business, partly. That is, you sell athletic supplies and so do I. Of course, it’s a small part of my business, but I’m not hankering to lose it. Not,” added Mr. Crocker, quickly, “that there’s any danger of that. I’ve always welcomed competition, Mr. Emerson. There’s plenty of trade here for you and me both if we handle it right.”

“I hope so,” affirmed Russell.

“Yes, but cutting prices isn’t going to get us anywhere.” Mr. Crocker smiled almost playfully. His was a leather-grained, deeply-furrowed countenance, and that arch smile looked extremely out of place. “No, sir.” He shook his head gently but emphatically. “No, sir, my young friend, cutting prices is bad for us. You cut and I cut and what’s left? Neither of us is making a profit. I’m not in business for pleasure, and neither are you, I take it. Now, the best thing for both of us is to come to a sort of friendly agreement. As I said before, there’s trade enough for us both, and there’s no sense in throwing away our profits. That’s sense, isn’t it?”

“Perfect sense, Mr. Crocker. But I haven’t been throwing away my profits, so far as I know, sir.”

“You’ve been selling goods ten, fifteen, twenty per cent under the usual local prices,” replied Mr. Crocker firmly. “I manage to keep tabs on what’s going on around me, my friend.”

“I’ve been selling goods at prices that bring me a fair profit, Mr. Crocker, a profit that I’m satisfied with. Of course, it costs me less to do business than it costs you, sir, but that’s nothing for me to worry about.”

The hardware man looked searchingly at Russell and stiffened. “You’ve been cutting prices to get my trade, young man,” he announced severely. “I’m here to tell you it’s got to stop. I came in here like a friend, but I’m going out an enemy if you persist in taking that tone with me. Don’t think I’ll let you get my business away from me, sir, because I won’t. It’s been tried before.” Mr. Crocker’s face hardened and his voice was grim. “Four years ago a fellow opened up right over there, where Whitson is now. He lasted eight months. Then the sheriff sold him out. There’s been others, too. You take my advice and think it over. Why” – Mr. Crocker’s gaze traveled disparagingly over the shelves and the little show-case – “why, you haven’t enough stock here to run three weeks if you were getting any business.”

“In that case, why worry, sir?” asked Russell.

“Oh, I’m not worrying! That’s up to you.” Mr. Crocker smiled again, but the smile was more like a snarl. “You think it over. That’s my advice to you. You think it over and then drop around to see me about Monday. There’s no reason why you and I shouldn’t come to an agreement on prices, Mr. Emerson. I’m willing to come down a little here and there. I’ll be fair. We can fix it so’s you’ll make a bigger profit than you’re making now – if you’re making any; which I doubt – and won’t lose any of your trade. If you don’t decide to be reasonable, why, you’d better look for another line of business!”

Mr. Crocker settled his hat more squarely on his head, nodded curtly and went out. When he had gone Russell put out the lights and locked the door, all very thoughtfully. The thoughtfulness continued while he strode quickly to State street and thence made his way to the Green and to Upton Hall. In Number 27 he recounted briefly to Stick the conversation with Mr. Crocker. Stick was fairly aghast.

“I knew something rotten would happen,” he groaned. “I knew the luck was too good to hold. Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do.”

“That’s all I see,” agreed Russell as he hurriedly prepared for supper.

“And maybe,” went on Stick, a wee bit more hopefully, “he’s right, Rus. Maybe we’ll do just as well if we charge a little more for things. I suppose it is rather cheeky for us to open up almost next door to the old codger and try to undersell him. In a way, it was fairly decent of him to give us a warning, wasn’t it?”

“Well, perhaps. But wasn’t it sort of a confession of weakness, Stick?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Why, if he really thinks he can put us out of business, why should he come and offer us a part of the trade? Why not take it all?”

“I suppose he wanted to be fair,” answered Stick, doubtfully. Then he started and shot an anxious look at his companion. “Look here, Rus,” he exclaimed, “you’re – you’re not thinking of acting the fool!”

“Hope not. Depends on what you mean by acting the fool.”

“I mean you’re not going to try to buck him, are you?”

“I guess you could call it that,” answered Russell easily. “At least, I don’t propose to let Crocker or any one else come and tell me – ”

“But you can’t do that!” wailed Stick. “I’m as much interested in that store as you are – almost, and – and I won’t have it! We can’t afford to make an enemy of that fellow, Rus. He’ll do just as he told you and we’ll be broke in a month. There’s no use in being stubborn. Of course, it isn’t pleasant to have him dictating to us, but he’s got the whip-hand, now hasn’t he?”

“He may have, but I doubt it.” Russell gave a final pat to his tie and glanced at the little clock on his chiffonier. “Come on and let’s eat, Stick. We can talk about this later.”

Stick, however, chose to talk about it all the way to Lawrence and would have talked about it during supper had Russell given him an opportunity. But Russell dived into general conversation and left his partner to silent and moody meditation. Stick was so thoroughly alarmed that he ate almost nothing; and Stick’s appetite was normally something to be proud of. Afterwards the subject was returned to and the two came nearer to a quarrel than they ever had before. Only the fact that Russell refused to get angry prevented it. Stick pleaded and begged, argued and, at length, commanded, but Russell was not to be moved.

“We agreed,” he said firmly, “that, as I had put more money into this than you had, I was to have the say in such matters as this. And I’ve thought it over carefully, Stick, and I mean to go right on as we’ve been going. Look here, now. Suppose we agreed to Crocker’s plan. We make an agreement with him not to sell goods below a certain price. He had all the trade before and he will have it all again. He says there is business enough for both of us. That listens well, but it isn’t true. Our only chance of making good lies in getting a whole lot of trade away from him if we can do it. And we’re doing it. And that’s what’s worrying him. He’s been selling things at a big profit, just as though the War hadn’t ever stopped, and there’s been no one to interfere with it. Now we come along and put a fair price on our goods and, of course, we’re getting customers away from him. Every day some one comes in and says, ‘Why, Crocker asks fifty cents more than that,’ or sixty cents, or whatever it may be. He realizes that he’s either got to scare us into an agreement on prices or lower his own prices; yes, and put better goods in stock, too! He hates to get less than he’s been getting, and so he tries to frighten us. Well, he can’t do it. We don’t frighten. As for driving us away, why, he will find that we’re hard to drive, Stick. He simply can’t do it.”