Charlie rapped on the door. Some one said: “Come in!” Charlie entered. A rotund man sat at a rudely constructed desk littered with account sheets. He half turned on the box that served for a chair.
“What can I do for you?” he inquired briskly.
“Buy some beef off me,” Charlie answered. “Patronize home industry an’ help the country flourish.”
The man bit the end of a pencil reflectively.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said.
“I’m telling you so you will know,” Charlie returned impudently. “Beef is my business, I raise it, buy it, and sell it, on the hoof or dressed—any old way that seems profitable. You must need a heap to feed this gang.”
“Sure. But I don’t buy beef as casual as you’d buy a pair of socks,” the other declared. “I’ve got a considerable supply on hand and contracted for.”
“I can deliver you prime dressed beef right here in your camp for four cents a pound,” Charlie offered crisply.
“I can get it for less’n that.” The commissariat manager shook his head. “Don’t use prime beef, nohow.”
“Still, if you could get first-class beef at third-class prices, you’d make money by buying it,” Charlie pointed out. “It goes farther. How about three and a half cents?”