“Young man,” said the magnate rather sharply, “come down to brass tacks. What is it you are talking about?”
“Well then, specifically,” Johnny smiled broadly, “there is a fine old man named Kennedy who has a niece quite as fine. They live in a Central American jungle. Every Carib loves them because they love the Caribs.
“Until you signed this agreement they were very poor. The grapefruit aboard this ship is theirs.”
“Not our Kennedy.”
“Our Kennedy.”
“Kennedy,” the rich man mused. “That name sounds familiar. Can it be that a Spaniard name Diaz tried to purchase his grapefruit orchard for me?”
“Could be, and is true!” exclaimed Johnny, “That was the wily Spaniard’s game, preying upon Kennedy’s poverty. Planning to make a large profit off land he hoped to buy from a needy man for a song.”
“Why did Kennedy not tell me?” the rich man demanded.
“Too modest, perhaps. And perhaps—you will pardon me—perhaps he thought it would do no good.
“Now,” Johnny continued, “you are the Fruit Company. You said that yourself. And the Fruit Company refused to market Kennedy’s grapefruit because one year he sold to an independent market. That’s why they are poor.”