Owen had won both name and fame among the merchants, and he now engaged with several mills to superintend their output and sell their goods with his label on each package. In other words, he was a Manufacturers' Broker. From a five-hundred-pound-a-year man he had grown to be worth two thousand pounds a year.
No mill owned him. He was free—he was making money. The dream of human betterment was still in his heart.
On one of his trips to Glasgow to sell goods, he met a daughter of David Dale, a mill-owner who was in active competition with him. Dale made a fine yarn, too.
The girl had heard of Owen: they met as enemies—a very good way to begin an acquaintance. It was Nature's old, old game of stamen, pistil and pollen, that fertilizes the world of business, betterment and beauty. They quarreled.
"You are the man who puts your name on the package?"
"Yes."
"And yet you own no mill!"
"True—but——"
"Never mind. You certainly are proud of your name."
"I am—wouldn't you be?"