He turned and strode off toward the hotel, with Mr. Welliver trotting at his heels, uttering bleating sounds of protest. As they neared the piazza, he said, pantingly: “Suppose we talk some more. Maybe we can hit on a compromise.”
“The only compromise you can hit on is to keep your hands off.”
Mr. Welliver shrugged his shoulders.
“Good night, young man. I’m afraid you’re going to be very sorry for this. Your father had more—discretion.”
“My father’s backbone reached from the base of his skull to the seat of his pants,” said Jim, “and every inch of it was stiff. Good night, Mr. Welliver.”
Inside he procured a telegraph blank and wrote a brief message to the bookkeeper at the old office:
Notify all agents and customers price clothespins five tens off list. Effective to-day.
Again something to do had arisen and Jim had done it swiftly, suddenly. He had added fresh and stronger claims on his new name.
CHAPTER IV
Jim awoke next morning to a sense not altogether one of satisfaction with the events of the night before. He realized he had inaugurated a clothespin war which further parleying might have postponed or prevented. Again he had acted swiftly, suddenly, surprisingly to himself. Yet as he thought it over he was less inclined to censure himself. He felt he was right when he insisted on building and operating his mill to suit himself—so long as he built and operated with fairness. He knew Welliver and the Club would not recede from their position, and that there remained only to surrender, play for delay, or fight. There is a certain satisfaction in striking first.