“All right, Tom Benson!” sputtered Bently. “If I want to see no further than that, it suits me well enough not to. But I'll tell you one thing; you're doing your best to send this concern straight to hell. You're going to make cannon, are you? When do you expect to use 'em, next Fourth of July, maybe. You're wasting good stock, on which you'll never clear a dollar's profit. I'll not stand for the spending of one cent on such damn foolishness.”
“I'll get it somewhere else,” said Benson sourly.
“Not on the firm's name, you won't; mind you that!” shouted Mr. Bently flying into a rage.
“The firm!” sneered Benson, elevating his bushy eyebrows. “Look here, don't you think the firm's lasted quite long enough? It's been my head against your jaw. It's a hell of a pardnership!” he thrust his hands deep in his trousers' pockets. “Come, which shall it be, do I step out, or do you? One of us has got to go!”
“I guess you'll buy, Tom Benson,” said the postmaster, with a shrewd shake of the head. “I'll not have you moving across the street to set up shop under my nose.”
Benson threw back his head and laughed aloud at this.
“You got a heap of confidence in me. That's a pretty way to talk to your son-in-law, ain't it now?” he said.
“You ain't of my choosing, Tom, I never made any bones about that,” retorted Bently.
His candour must have agreed perfectly with the mechanic's rude sense of humour, for his grin widened.
“Nobody'll ever accuse you of saying anything less than you think,” he said. “Well, if I moved across the street, I could show you how shops ought to be run.”