“‘Honey crop reported about one third normal throughout Ontario. Severe drought. Members advised to hold for good prices. Market firm.’”
“The drought must have been worse with them than it was with us,” said Carl. “Well, prices are likely to go ’way up, and we ought to have a chance to make some money.”
“It looks so,” replied Bob, “and now I want you to let me do the negotiating. I’m an ignoramus at handling bees, but I think I can sell honey better than either of you.”
“Who’ll you sell it to?” asked Alice.
“I’m going to try Mr. Brown, of Brown & Son, you know, the wholesale grocery people. We used to buy a lot of stock from him for the store. I’ve often bought from him by long-distance, and I’ll see if I can’t sell to him the same way. Anyhow, I think he’ll give us a square deal.”
The telephone was not in a booth, but merely attached to the wall of the hotel office. However, there was no one in sight or hearing at the time, and they might as well have been in a private room. Bob called the long-distance connection, and after about fifteen minutes’ waiting got a reply from the Toronto grocery dealers. Alice and Carl stood beside him, and listened breathlessly to the conversation.
“Is that Mr. Brown?” cried Bob. “This is Bob Harman—of Harman’s Corners, you know. No, I’m not there just now. I’m running a bee-ranch up north. A bee-ranch. Honey-bees, you know. Yes. Yes, we have a lot of splendid comb-honey. Are you in the market?”
For a moment he listened attentively.
“We have about a hundred dozen ‘Fancy’ and about fifty dozen ‘No. 1,’” he continued. “We ask $3 and $2.50 a dozen for the two grades, freight paid to Toronto.”
“What an awful price! We’ll never get it,” whispered Alice, startled.