Father and son laughed together. Then Sir 199 Archibald began to drum on the desk with his finger-tips. Presently he got up and began to pace the floor, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his lips pursed, his brows drawn in a scowl of reflection. This was a characteristic thing. Sir Archibald invariably paced, and pursed his lips, and scowled, when a problem of more than ordinary interest engaged him. He knew that Archie’s plan was not unreasonable. There might––there ought to be––good profit in a cash-trading voyage in a small schooner to the harbours of White Bay and the French Shore. There are no shops in most of these little settlements. Shops go to the people in the form of trading-schooners from St. John’s and the larger ports of the more southerly coast. It is in this way that the fisher-folk procure their flour and tea, their medicines and clothing, their tackle, their molasses, pins and needles, their trinkets, everything, in fact, both the luxuries and necessities of life. It is chiefly a credit business, the prices based on credit; the folk are outfitted in the spring and pay in salt-cod in the late summer and fall. Why shouldn’t a cash-trader, underselling the credit plan, do well on the coast in a small way? 200
By and by, his face clearing, Sir Archibald sat down at the desk again.
“How much do you want?” he asked, directly.
Archie took a grip on the arms of his chair and clenched his teeth. It took a good deal of resolution to utter the amount.
“Well, well?” Sir Archibald impatiently demanded.
“A thousand dollars,” said Archie, grimly.
Sir Archibald started.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars in cash,” Archie added, “and seven hundred and fifty in credit at the warehouse.”
“What’s the security?” Sir Archibald blandly inquired.
“Security!” Archie gasped.