Carter had a tenderness for those presses. They had been young when he was young, were bought when the world smiled on him and his business had its hedyay. They had kept him and he could not be disloyal now. “I believe that they have printed your tract efficiently, Mr. Branstone,” he defended them.
“Oh, there’s life in the old dogs yet,” said Sam. “I’m not proposing to make scrap-iron of them.”
“As they belong to me,” said Carter tartly, “it would not make such difference if you did propose it.”
“Therefore,” said Sam, “I don’t propose it—yet. Please remember that I’m talking business. Do you care to tell me what that text cost to produce and what you get for it?”
Carter did not care, but, though he wondered at himself, he told. “And that?” Sam asked, pointing to another; and again Carter told.
“Then,” said Sam, “there are two religious papers which you print for the proprietors. What——?”
“Young man,” interrupted Carter, “are you proposing to buy my business?”
“No,” said Sam coolly, “only to become your partner in it. What profit were you going to tell me you made on the papers?”
Carter told: he was too stupefied to do anything else. “Um,” said Sam. “It isn’t much.”
“They are a good work,” said Carter, and Sam looked at him sharply, but the old man was perfectly sincere. It was good work to print religious magazines and he did it for next to nothing.