"At a loss, in order to secure custom against competition," was the prompt retort. "It costs exactly eleven cents to turn out those boxes."
Morton persisted in his refusal to admit the justice of the young man's refusal to accept the terms offered.
"But, my dear boy," he continued, "take your last four bids. I mean the bids that you and Carrington made before we bought out Carrington. The first, time, Carrington bid eleven cents; while you bid fourteen. On the second lot Carrington bid thirteen; and you bid nine."
"You illustrate my contention very well," Hamilton interrupted. "At eleven cents a box, Carrington hardly quit even. It was for that reason he bid thirteen on the following lot; while I, because I was bound to get a look in on the business, even at a loss—why, I bid nine cents. The result was that I got the order, and it cost me a loss of just two cents on each and every box to fill it." A contented rumble from the large man emphasized the truth of the statement.
Nothing daunted, Morton resumed his narrative of operations in the box trade.
"On the third lot, Carrington bid eight cents, while you bid eighteen."
Carrington's indignation was too much for reticence.
"Yes, I got that order," he roared, wrathfully. "It was a million box order, too—" The withering look bestowed on the speaker by Morton caused him to break off and to cower as abjectly in his chair as was possible to one of his bulk.
"His success in being the winner in that bout cost him three cents each for the million boxes," Hamilton commented. "Well?"
"Well," Morton said crisply, "for the fourth and biggest order, Carrington bid seventeen, and you bid sixteen."