“I’ve been selling goods at prices that bring me a fair profit, Mr. Crocker, a profit that I’m satisfied with. Of course, it costs me less to do business than it costs you, sir, but that’s nothing for me to worry about.”
The hardware man looked searchingly at Russell and stiffened. “You’ve been cutting prices to get my trade, young man,” he announced severely. “I’m here to tell you it’s got to stop. I came in here like a friend, but I’m going out an enemy if you persist in taking that tone with me. Don’t think I’ll let you get my business away from me, sir, because I won’t. It’s been tried before.” Mr. Crocker’s face hardened and his voice was grim. “Four years ago a fellow opened up right over there, where Whitson is now. He lasted eight months. Then the sheriff sold him out. There’s been others, too. You take my advice and think it over. Why”—Mr. Crocker’s gaze traveled disparagingly over the shelves and the little show-case—“why, you haven’t enough stock here to run three weeks if you were getting any business.”
“In that case, why worry, sir?” asked Russell.
“Oh, I’m not worrying! That’s up to you.” Mr. Crocker smiled again, but the smile was more like a snarl. “You think it over. That’s my advice to you. You think it over and then drop around to see me about Monday. There’s no reason why you and I shouldn’t come to an agreement on prices, Mr. Emerson. I’m willing to come down a little here and there. I’ll be fair. We can fix it so’s you’ll make a bigger profit than you’re making now—if you’re making any; which I doubt—and won’t lose any of your trade. If you don’t decide to be reasonable, why, you’d better look for another line of business!”
Mr. Crocker settled his hat more squarely on his head, nodded curtly and went out. When he had gone Russell put out the lights and locked the door, all very thoughtfully. The thoughtfulness continued while he strode quickly to State street and thence made his way to the Green and to Upton Hall. In Number 27 he recounted briefly to Stick the conversation with Mr. Crocker. Stick was fairly aghast.
“I knew something rotten would happen,” he groaned. “I knew the luck was too good to hold. Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do.”
“That’s all I see,” agreed Russell as he hurriedly prepared for supper.
“And maybe,” went on Stick, a wee bit more hopefully, “he’s right, Rus. Maybe we’ll do just as well if we charge a little more for things. I suppose it is rather cheeky for us to open up almost next door to the old codger and try to undersell him. In a way, it was fairly decent of him to give us a warning, wasn’t it?”
“Well, perhaps. But wasn’t it sort of a confession of weakness, Stick?”
“I don’t get you.”