“Er—well—” Mr. Binger hesitated and hemmed and hawed and acted embarrassed.
“You go back and tell the churn trust,” says Mr. Kinderhook, in a voice you could have heard clean to the post-office, “that my churn is not for sale and I am not for sale.”
“I am empowered to offer you fifty thousand dollars for your secret, Mr. Kinderhook.”
“Nonsense! Fiddlesticks! I shall make ten times that out of the manufacture. Good afternoon, Mr. Binger. There is nothing further to say.”
Right then and there Mr. Kinderhook got up as grand as an emperor and walked off, leaving Mr. Binger looking like he had bit into an April-fool sandwich filled with soap.
Catty and I sat a spell and then went off to talk it over.
“That was funny,” says I.
“It was,” says he. “Pretended not to know each other.”
“And Kinderhook telegraphed for him to come,” says I.
“It’s some kind of a snide trick. That’s sure. Those two fellers are in it together, and they’re tryin’ to fool folks some way. Whatever their scheme is, it’s pretty slick.”