“No,” he said plumply. “They busted Morton. If he couldn’t make them go, I can’t.”
“And those other heaps of second-best stuff?” inquired Frank. “I should think they would sell for something.”
“And spoil the sale of good-profit goods. No, no. That’s poor business policy. I shall make double good as it is. Just dump the balance into some junk shop. Whatever you get for it you can keep, Newton.”
“Oh, sir,” interrupted Frank quickly, “you hardly estimate the real value there. Why, anyone taking the trouble to put those needles up into packages could clean up a good many dollars. There’s a lot of sewing machine needles there, too. They are worth three for five cents anywhere.”
“All right,” retorted his employer with an expansive smile. “You do it, Newton, I won’t. Take the stuff with my compliments, and thank you in the bargain for all the pains you have gone to in turning me out a first-class job.”
“Takes your breath away, does it, Frank?” said Buckner, with a friendly nudge. “It will give you some interesting dabbling to do for quite a time to come, eh?”
“Yes, indeed,” murmured Frank, his eyes shining bright with pleasure. He was fairly overcome at the unexpected donation. He seized the hardware man’s hand and shook it fervently. “Sir,” he said gratefully, “I feel that you have given me my start in life.”
“Have I?” laughed his employer lightly. “Glad. Well, the matter’s settled,” he continued, consulting his watch—“I must catch my train.”
“One little matter, please,” said Frank, advancing to the zinc box and throwing back its cover.
He rapidly described what it contained, including the lists of names and the mail order routing cards.