Nor did Mr. Reckeway know that the order for the lumber in special lengths had been given to a mill in Arkansas the day after I had bought the Worthy dump, when he betook himself to Atchison in an effort to dissuade the Greenleaf-Baker firm from building, pointing out that he had the grain business corralled here; that I was now a “dead duck,” without standing in my own community. Mr. Baker was not impressed by Mr. R.’s pleadings.
Mr. Reckeway had been shrewd enough — or lucky enough—to sell, in early fall, a sizable quantity of December corn at a price above the settled market. He had been sloughing off his profits to the farmers to create atmosphere—and to stop me. Many of his old Goff customers were now bringing their corn to him in Wetmore, a high testimonial of his popularity—and a welcome morsel for the aggressive half of the BT Committee to peddle in support of their earlier expressed contention that an elevator man could actually pay more for corn—even, so to speak, pull rabbits out of a hat.
Had Mr. Reckeway made it win, it would have been good business. As it was, I’m not shrewd enough to say whether it was good business or bad business. The one certainty is that he did not make the goal he was shooting for.
Owing to delay in getting the lumber, the Baker elevator did not open for business until January 5. Reckeway had now quit playing for atmosphere. Then, we both got more corn than we could conveniently handle, as a car shortage had developed, which slowed down shipments.
We had a little bad luck the very first day the Baker elevator was opened for business. We were getting corn from three shelters, about 4,000 bushels that day—and some of the wagons came in after dark. Elmer Brockman, the builder, was looking after the elevator end of the first day’s run. I weighed a wagon, told the driver to wait for Elmer to signal him in with his lantern.
Something had gone wrong, and Elmer had taken his lantern and stepped out of the driveway. Mr. farmer, after pulling up and stopping, decided that he didn’t need a lantern to guide him—and he drove on in and got one horse part way in the open dump. The horse lost patches of hair in two or three places, but was not otherwise injured. The next day the fellow came back and wanted to sell me the horse for $100. The old plug was worth only about $40. I didn’t want to buy the horse at any price, and I didn’t want the man to go away dissatisfied. And I suspicioned—correctly—that some of my competitor’s supporters might be back of the fellow. I suggested that I send Milt Cole, the liveryman, out to the farm to examine the horse—and that I would pay him whatever amount that the two of them might decide would be just. Mr. Cole said $40 would be a big plenty—and I paid it. Then, about a week later the farmer, pleased with his high-handed stroke of luck, had the nerve to tell me that I was an easy mark, that the horse was as good as ever, and that I had virtually thrown away forty dollars.
Now, this man was on a farm owned by an Illinois man—a Mr. Smith, who had entrusted me with the rental of the place. The farmer had contracted to pay cash rent, with a clause in the contract stating that in case of drought, or for any cause lowering the normal yield, that a substantial reduction would be allowed. Mr. Smith was a firm believer in the old principle of “live and let live.” But he soon found out that it wouldn’t work so well here. And anyway, it was mostly his sister’s idea—she having an interest in the land.
The tenant had asked for a reduction. Well, Mr. Smith came to my printing office one day, borrowed my shotgun, pulled on new overalls, and went out to his farm to hunt a bit. He found the tenant at the house, asked for and received permission to hunt. Mr. Smith said truthfully he had just got in from Minnesota, and casually asked about crops in general here. The tenant said they had been good, and he bragged a little about how well he himself had done that year. Mr. Smith’s sister lived in Minneapolis, and he had gone around that way to get her to yield a point on that stiff “live and let live” idea of hers—and to discuss plans for selling the farm. I sold it for them, later.
Might say here that another tenant the previous year had asked for, and received a reduction. The man had sold his corn. He patted his pants pocket, and told me, “I’ve got the money all in here. They’ll have to settle my way, or not at all.” He was entitled to a reduction and I was sure Mr. Smith would do the right thing. And he did. I said to the tenant, “If you should lose that money we would have no chance to collect anything. Put your money back in the bank where it will be safe. If anything comes up, I’ll notify you in time for you to get it out before attempting to force a collection.” He said, “On your word, I’ll do that. Can’t sleep very well with the money in my britches, anyway.” This man was Albert W. Dixon. Don’t care to name the other fellow.
This rather unusual incident got “noised” around, and the tenant:—the farmer with the “crippled” horse—being what he was, thought he might just as well do a little more gouging. Mr. Smith said to me, “Make that fellow pay in full—and get rid of him.”