They walked along, Welliver doing most of the conversing. Indeed, it was Mr. Welliver’s habit to do most of the conversing. He owned a great many words and was willing to part with them freely—but not unwisely. It was said by men in the business that Mr. Welliver could keep you entertained for an evening and not utter a word of what was on his mind. Clothespin Jimmy once told him he was like the what-d’ye-call-’em fish that squirted out a cloud of ink and then hid in it.
“Guess we can stop here,” said Jim when they arrived at a spot overlooking the flat on which the new mills were rising. “That’s the plant below.”
“Um! Some bigger than the old one, eh? What’s the idea? Going to take all the business away from us old fellows?”
“I guess you and Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Plum and Mr. Mannikin can look after your share, if all I’ve heard is true.”
“We can try. We can try. And that, my boy, is the very reason I’m here. I’m told you’re putting in six more clothespin machines than you had in the old plant.”
Jim nodded.
“That means about one hundred and twenty-five thousand additional five-gross boxes going on to the market.”
“So father says.”
“Well, son, the Club don’t look on that with a favorable eye. Of course you know the Club?”
“Clothespin Club? I know we’re members of it with seven other mills.”