“I only said they wouldn’t make that store pay,” replied the other defensively. “And they won’t.”
“Say, Crocker,” inquired Jimmy, “isn’t it your father or uncle or something who runs the hardware store?”
“Father,” said Billy in a tone that suggested reticence.
“Thought so. Maybe you’re a bit prejudiced then. You folks sell the same line of stuff as Emerson and Patterson do, eh? Guess you don’t like the idea of a rival almost next door.”
“All those fellows will sell won’t affect my father any!”
“Say!” This explosive exclamation came from Stanley, who suddenly sat up very straight on Ned’s bed and fixed Billy with a baleful glare. “Say, is that your store, Crocker?”
“My father’s,” answered Billy with dignity.
“Well, say, let me tell you something then. You sell the punkest stuff that ever came out of the ark! Honest, Crocker, you do! Say, if Patterson’s clothes were made by Grant at Richmond, or whatever it was you said, the baseball gloves you take good money for were made by Mrs. Cleopatra the day she got bitten by the snake!”
“They’re just as good as you can get anywhere,” protested Billy indignantly. “Baseball gloves aren’t made as well as they used to be, since the War, and if you got a bum one you ought to have brought it back, Hassell, and—”