“Don’t speak. You’ll shake his nerve,” Carl muttered.
“No,” Bob was saying into the transmitter. “We wouldn’t care to take much less. There’s been a bad crop everywhere, and honey is scarce this year. Oh, we couldn’t think of taking that. What’s that? All right. In an hour, then. Good-by.” He turned away from the telephone.
“They actually had the nerve to offer $2.25 for the ‘Fancy,’ and $2 for the other,” he said. “They said they had bought a lot of ‘Fancy’ at $2, but I think that was pure bluff. And I thought they were sure to give us a square deal! Well, I’m to ring them up again in an hour, and if they won’t come up to a decent figure, there are other dealers in Toronto.”
It seemed a long time to wait. Alice carried her gift of honey to Mr. Farr, and came back reporting that he had seemed much pleased. But he had shaken his head grimly at her account of the poor season.
“The old skinflint needn’t worry,” said Carl, angrily. “He’ll get his money all right.”
“Yes, but I’m not going to sacrifice that honey,” said Bob with decision. “It’s cost us too much—with cats and moose and stings and bears and wendigos. It ought to be worth a dollar a pound. If we can’t do well in Toronto, we’ll ring up Montreal. Honey prices are often better there.”
They did not wait much beyond the hour in calling Mr. Brown again, and this time Bob got him with very little delay.
“Yes,” he said in reply to some question, “I’ve thought it over, and we can’t possibly accept what you offer. We’ll shade the price to $2.80 for the best grade, but we think we should have at least $2.50 for the other. It’s really beautiful honey.”
He listened a moment and frowned. “Hold the line a moment,” he said at last. “I must consult my brother.”
He turned to Carl and Alice, holding his hand over the transmitter, so that their conversation should not leak through to Toronto.