When I had given Mr. Harris a cigar and he had lit it, and when he had once more resumed his horizontal position on the lounge, I proceeded to take his order. He was an easy man to sell. The stock was low on some of my goods, and he had a favorable impression of my house, so he ordered easily, saying but little about prices until we came to cartridges.
“Whose cartridges are you selling?” he asked sharply.
“We handle both the U. M. C. and Winchester.”
“No Phoenix?”
“We don't keep them in stock, but I can get them for you if you prefer them.”
“I won't sell any other.”
I was curious to know why.
“Just because I like Hulburt; he's one of the nicest men there is in New York, and I'm going to handle his cartridges every time.”
“But,” said I, and very cautiously, “don't you find some trade that will insist on having the other brands?”
“Yes, and they can go somewhere else and get them. I wouldn't buy a U. M. C. cartridge if there never was any other. Reachum uses their goods to cut prices with, and, d—n 'em! they can sell him, but they can't sell me.”