"Their name?" he says. "I know it already. It's Rose."
"Not accordin' to that West Ostable doctor, it ain't. The name they give him was Rosenstein."
He looked at me for a spell without speakin'. Then he smiled, heaved a long breath, and reached over and shook my hand.
"Whew!" says he. "Skipper, I feel better. Richard's himself again. To be beat in a business deal by Roses is one thing—but by Rosensteins is another. You can't beat the Rosensteins in business."
"Not in the secondhand and by-productin' business you can't," says I. "Them lines belong to 'em. We hadn't any right to butt in."
And we both laughed, good and hearty.
"But," says I, after a little, "what'll we do with that curio room, anyway? Give it up?"
"Not much!" says he, emphatic. "I guess we'll have to give up the antiques; but we've got the winter ahead of us, Skipper, and the Ostable County embroidery crop flourishes best in cold weather. We'll start the old ladies knittin' again and have a fairly good-sized stock when the autos commence runnin' once more. Give up the Colonial Pilgrim Mothers? I should say not!"
"All right," I says, dubious. "You may be right, Jim; you generally are. But I'm a little scary of this by-product game. It'll get us into serious trouble, I'm afraid, some day. It's easier to steer one big craft, than 'tis to maneuver a fleet of little ones."
He sniffed, scornful. "As I understand it, Cap'n Zeb," he says, "this business of yours was in a pretty feeble condition when you called me in to prescribe."