“I am Mr. Ashe,” said Jim, stepping forward.
“Delighted to meet you, young man.” The dapper little gentleman stood off at arm’s-length to appraise him. “Don’t favor your daddy much. Foot longer and two feet narrower.” He chuckled gaily. “My name’s Welliver—Morton J. Welliver. Bet you’ve heard of me, eh? Bet you’ve heard daddy mention me once or twice.”
“Of course. Your name, with Mr. Jenkins’s and Mr. Plum’s and Mr. Mannikin’s, is pretty average familiar to me. I hope everything is satisfactory at your plant.”
“Satisfactory? My boy, the Brockville Hardwood Company is booming. Now’s the day for the clothespin man. We’re at the top of the heap. Prices up, competition down, market hungry. But what’s this I hear about daddy? Wired him I wanted to see him on clothespin business. He wired back: ‘Out of the game. Son owns plant—lock, stock, and barrel. Tell it to him.’ Now, what’s that mean?”
“Just what it says, I expect. Father has gone to California with mother. The plant’s mine.”
“Clothespin Jimmy quit! Can’t believe it. Thought he’d die with one foot on a maple log and a clothespin in each hand. Well! Well! So you and I have to talk business, eh?”
“If there’s any to talk,” said Jim.
“I reckon there’s some—some. Where’ll we go to do it?”
“We might walk out a piece and sit on a fence,” said Jim, with a grin. “It’ll be more comfortable, and we can argue and swing our arms better.”
“Good enough. Which way?”