Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/1050

976 Coulson again made trial of the receptacle on the floor, but this time missed it altogether.

"Beast!" shuddered Creighton, drawing in his legs. Coulson had ceased to be merely offensive to him. He was loathsome, repellent—nauseating.

"Little or nothing," he answered aloud. "If he does that again I'll leave the place!" he added, mentally.

"Um," reflected Mr. Coulson. "Good we don't want none. But, come to think of

it, we may need a case or two until we get the new process entered up. How much 'll we take, Tom?"

"Don't need none," asserted Tom, with promptness. "Not an ounce."

"Reckon you're right," commented the head of the house, "but if the stuff's marketable 'twon't do no harm to have a pound or two if we have to lay off on t'other process for a while."

"We won't have no need to lay off, and the stuff 'll only clutter us up," growled Tom.

"Guess you're right, boy, but I'm gettin' old an' conservative, and this young feller's been so perlite an' informin' I hate to send him away empty-handed. What price for two cases, son?"

Coulson shot twice at his floor target in rapid succession before Creighton could reply.

"We don't deal in odd lots this year," he answered, with outward firmness and an inward shudder.

Coulson started to smile, but contented himself with a nod of interested receptivitv.

"Well, what's askin' for full lots?" he inquired, carelessly, ranging his target into position.

"Every time he does it," shrieked Creighton's thought, "I'll raise the price, if I lose my job!"

Then aloud he queried, "Car lots?" and moved discreetly out of range.

"Yep!"

Coulson leaned menacingly forward as he answered, and Creighton silently quoted "Eighty!" as he averted his gaze in disgust.

"Car lots?" he repeated, reflectively. "Spot or future?"

Coulson illustrated his answer—"Spot!"

"Not under eighty-one!" resolved Creighton, with a shudder.

"If the quantity were large," he began, slowly, "we might—" He hesitated. "Do it if you dare!" he mentally challenged.

"Might make a concession, maybe?" prompted Coulson, with an indulgent smile.

"No—we might not be able to deliver at any price." the ex-poker-player answered.

"Sho!"

"Tang!" went the cuspidor.

"Eighty-two!" decided Creighton, sternly, to himself.

"Well, let's say," Coulson began—"let's say"—he paused and looked reflectively at the floor.

"Better not—better not!" threatened Creighton's thought as he watched the movement.

"Let's say ten cars," concluded the old man, with a well-directed deluge.

"Eighty-three," answered Creighton, firmly. "Swine!" he whispered, fiercely, under his breath.

Coulson gave a short laugh, slowly descended from his perch, took the quid from his mouth, and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

"You can send us two cases, young feller, at seventy-eight. Not 'cause we need 'em, but for sake of old times," he announced, as he reseated himself at the table.

"Sorry, Mr. Coulson, but car lots at eighty-three are the lowest figures to-day."

"Then we'll wait for to-morrow."

Coulson's expression of amusement altered for the worse as he jerked out his tobacco-pouch.

"I can't keep the offer open," warned Creighton.

The old man eyed his imperturbable visitor with rapidly increasing wrath.

"I'm busy to-day, young gentleman, an' I shall be to-morrow." he growled in an ugly tone. "You're new and young, and you were kind of amusin' for a while. But the jokin's over. If you don't know who