“Sure. But Jonathan Brent’s a bad man to fight, I guess,” said Fudge with a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t want to do it.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t.” Mr. Stacey had to smile in spite of himself. “But I would—if I had to. I’m not in this business for my health, son. You tell Mr. Brent that if he wants me to haul that car in and repair it I’ll do it, but I won’t take it back.”
“All right,” answered Gordon. “Seems to me, though, you could fix it up for a few dollars and have a perfectly good car.”
“There’s no market here for second-hand cars,” replied the dealer shortly. “Tell you what I will do, though. I’ll fix that car up as good as new as cheap as it can be done and take it on sale. Maybe I’d find a buyer for it.”
“You mean you’ll let Morris off on the balance he owes?”
“No, sir, I don’t mean anything of the sort! I mean that he’s to pay what he owes when it comes due. If I can sell the machine he’ll get what it fetches, less my commission of twenty per cent. Understand?”
“Well, I’ll tell Mr. Brent what you say,” agreed Gordon. “But I don’t believe he will be willing to have it that way.”
“There’s no other way he can have it,” snarled Mr. Stacey. “He may have a heap of money and own this town, but he don’t own me! And he can’t cheat me out of what belongs to me, either! And you can tell him so! You tell him that if that two-thirty-five isn’t paid by the tenth of October I’ll sue for it.”
“Think of him suing Mr. Brent!” chuckled Fudge as they went out.
“I guess he’d have a pretty good case, though,” said Gordon. “Of course Morris does owe that money to him.”