Morton shook his head.
"The Carrington factory," he said threateningly, "will sell to the trade for ten cents, until—"
"—Until I'm cleaned out!" Hamilton cried, fiercely.
Morton lifted a restraining hand. He was again his most suave self.
"My dear boy," he said gently, "I liked your father, and I esteemed him highly. He was a shrewd trader: he never tried to match pennies against hundred-dollar bills.... The moral is obvious, when you consider your factory alone as opposed to certain other interests. So, take my advice. Try cutting. The men would much rather have smaller wages than none at all, I'm sure. Think it over. Let me know by Saturday.... The Carrington factory is to issue its price-list on Monday."
Hamilton was worn out by the unequal combat. He hesitated for a little, then spoke moodily:
"Very well. I'll let you know by Saturday."
When, at last, his guests had departed, the wretched young man dropped his head on his arms over the heap of papers, and groaned aloud.... He could see no ray of hope—none!