MR. CROCKER CALLS
Russell didn’t see the Loring game, although there was no second team
practice that afternoon to prevent. Instead he took Stick’s place in
the store, allowing that youth to put in an afternoon at tennis, the
only kind of physical exertion he approved of. Russell was glad that
he had done this long before closing time arrived, for he spent a very
busy time at the Sign of the Football. There was one heart-stirring
quarter of an hour when, by actual count, seven customers lined the
counter! Russell surreptitiously counted the throng a second time,
incredulously certain that he had overestimated. Even femininity
invaded the store when two high school girls came in search of
sweaters. Russell, always shy in the presence of the opposite sex,
was all thumbs when it came to displaying his wares and, for the
first time, wished that he had not relieved Stick. Stick wouldn’t
be disturbed in the least by the whole female population of Alton!
Nothing, pursued Russell in his thoughts, as he clumsily brought a pile
of boxes crashing down on his head, ever did disturb Stick much except
an attack on his pocketbook.
The two young ladies were extremely self-possessed and viewed Russell’s
embarrassment with a sort of kindly contempt. The boy’s first hopeful
announcement that they carried no girls’ sweaters failed of the effect
he desired. They did not, they explained calmly, want girls’ sweaters,
but boys’ sweaters. After that there was nothing for it but to display
wares, falteringly explain why the garments were priced half a dollar
higher than similar garments purchased by the fair customers in New
Haven two years before and resist a horrible temptation to wipe the
perspiration from his brow. Russell heaped the counter high with
boxes--some of them, of course, empty--and got very much mixed in the
matter of sizes and prices. In the end, when the shoppers severely
declared that they would take two of the sweaters but couldn’t think
of paying the price set for them, Russell weakly but, oh, so gladly
knocked off a quarter of a dollar, almost frantically wrapped the
parcels up, overlooked a discrepancy of a nickel in one payment, and,
had not courtesy forbade, would have joyously pushed them out the door.
When they were at last gone, he wiped his forehead, sighed deeply with
heartfelt relief and wondered if it would not be a good idea to hang a
card in the window with some such inscription on it as “Gentlemen Only”
or “No Females Need Apply”! After that he sold a pair of woolen hose to
an Alton chap and two tennis balls to a tall bespectacled gentleman
who, Russell suspected, was the “Painless Dentist” further down the
street. The hour for closing was nearing and Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer,
who had been leaning in a sort of trance over his books in the wire
cage since four o’clock, moved and sighed loudly. Then followed
business of locking a drawer with much jangling of keys, the clanging
of the cage door and the florist set his hat on his head, looked
dubiously at the single light in the further window--Mr. Pulsifer never
lighted his window--took three boxes from the glass-fronted case at
the back of the store and passed out with a dismal “good night.” Those
three boxes, which, Russell concluded, Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer was going
to deliver in person, appeared to constitute the day’s business of the
florist’s establishment. Russell wondered whether it was possible that
the dejected gentleman made money over his expenses. It didn’t seem
that he could, for the few orders that came to him surely did amount
to more than thirty dollars a week. Russell’s thoughts were still on
Mr. Pulsifer when the doorway was darkened by a large, thickset man in
a suit of black and a wide-brimmed felt hat of the same color. When he
came into the light from the window Russell recognized him.
“Good evening, Mr. Crocker,” he said politely.
Mr. Crocker replied affably and then looked curiously about him.
“Your name’s Emerson, I take it,” he said finally. “Nice little
establishment you’ve got here.”
Russell agreed, although he saw quite plainly that the visitor didn’t
think it a nice little establishment at all, that, on the contrary, he
had viewed it rather contemptuously.
“Thought,” continued the hardware merchant, “I’d stop in and have a
word or two with you.”
“Very kind, I’m sure,” murmured Russell.
“Well, I’m an old hand at the selling game, Mr. Emerson, and I’ve
learned one or two things you haven’t--yet. You’re young and, I guess
you won’t mind my saying so, inexperienced.”
“Not in the least, sir.”
“Exactly,” pursued the other, interpreting the boy’s reply to suit
himself. “Now I’m always glad to help young fellows like you who are
just starting out for themselves. I’ve done it many times. Us older men
mustn’t forget that we owe a duty to youth and inexperience. That’s
why I dropped in, Mr. Emerson.” Mr. Crocker had thrust his hands into
the pockets of a pair of capacious trousers and was observing Russell
smilingly across the counter. “Now you and I are in the same line of
business, partly. That is, you sell athletic supplies and so do I. Of
course, it’s a small part of my business, but I’m not hankering to lose
it. Not,” added Mr. Crocker, quickly, “that there’s any danger of that.
I’ve always welcomed competition, Mr. Emerson. There’s plenty of trade
here for you and me both if we handle it right.”
“I hope so,” affirmed Russell.
“Yes, but cutting prices isn’t going to get us anywhere.” Mr. Crocker
smiled almost playfully. His was a leather-grained, deeply-furrowed
countenance, and that arch smile looked extremely out of place. “No,
sir.” He shook his head gently but emphatically. “No, sir, my young
friend, cutting prices is bad for us. You cut and I cut and what’s
left? Neither of us is making a profit. I’m not in business for
pleasure, and neither are you, I take it. Now, the best thing for both
of us is to come to a sort of friendly agreement. As I said before,
there’s trade enough for us both, and there’s no sense in throwing away
our profits. That’s sense, isn’t it?”
“Perfect sense, Mr. Crocker. But I haven’t been throwing away my
profits, so far as I know, sir.”
“You’ve been selling goods ten, fifteen, twenty per cent under the
usual local prices,” replied Mr. Crocker firmly. “I manage to keep tabs
on what’s going on around me, my friend.”
“I’ve been selling goods at prices that bring me a fair profit, Mr.
Crocker, a profit that I’m satisfied with. Of course, it costs me less
to do business than it costs you, sir, but that’s nothing for me to
worry about.”
The hardware man looked searchingly at Russell and stiffened. “You’ve
been cutting prices to get my trade, young man,” he announced severely.
“I’m here to tell you it’s got to stop. I came in here like a friend,
but I’m going out an enemy if you persist in taking that tone with me.
Don’t think I’ll let you get my business away from me, sir, because I
won’t. It’s been tried before.” Mr. Crocker’s face hardened and his
voice was grim. “Four years ago a fellow opened up right over there,
where Whitson is now. He lasted eight months. Then the sheriff sold him
out. There’s been others, too. You take my advice and think it over.
Why”--Mr. Crocker’s gaze traveled disparagingly over the shelves and
the little show-case--“why, you haven’t enough stock here to run three
weeks if you were getting any business.”
“In that case, why worry, sir?” asked Russell.
“Oh, I’m not worrying! That’s up to you.” Mr. Crocker smiled again, but
the smile was more like a snarl. “You think it over. That’s my advice
to you. You think it over and then drop around to see me about Monday.
There’s no reason why you and I shouldn’t come to an agreement on
prices, Mr. Emerson. I’m willing to come down a little here and there.
I’ll be fair. We can fix it so’s you’ll make a bigger profit than
you’re making now--if you’re making any; which I doubt--and won’t lose
any of your trade. If you don’t decide to be reasonable, why, you’d
better look for another line of business!”
Mr. Crocker settled his hat more squarely on his head, nodded curtly
and went out. When he had gone Russell put out the lights and locked
the door, all very thoughtfully. The thoughtfulness continued while he
strode quickly to State street and thence made his way to the Green
and to Upton Hall. In Number 27 he recounted briefly to Stick the
conversation with Mr. Crocker. Stick was fairly aghast.
“I knew something rotten would happen,” he groaned. “I knew the luck
was too good to hold. Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do.”
“That’s all I see,” agreed Russell as he hurriedly prepared for supper.
“And maybe,” went on Stick, a wee bit more hopefully, “he’s right, Rus.
Maybe we’ll do just as well if we charge a little more for things. I
suppose it is rather cheeky for us to open up almost next door to the
old codger and try to undersell him. In a way, it was fairly decent of
him to give us a warning, wasn’t it?”
“Well, perhaps. But wasn’t it sort of a confession of weakness, Stick?”
“I don’t get you.”
“Why, if he really thinks he can put us out of business, why should he
come and offer us a part of the trade? Why not take it all?”
“I suppose he wanted to be fair,” answered Stick, doubtfully. Then he
started and shot an anxious look at his companion. “Look here, Rus,” he
exclaimed, “you’re--you’re not thinking of acting the fool!”
“Hope not. Depends on what you mean by acting the fool.”
“I mean you’re not going to try to buck him, are you?”
“I guess you could call it that,” answered Russell easily. “At least, I
don’t propose to let Crocker or any one else come and tell me--”
“But you can’t do that!” wailed Stick. “I’m as much interested in that
store as you are--almost, and--and I won’t have it! We can’t afford
to make an enemy of that fellow, Rus. He’ll do just as he told you
and we’ll be broke in a month. There’s no use in being stubborn. Of
course, it isn’t pleasant to have him dictating to us, but he’s got the
whip-hand, now hasn’t he?”
“He may have, but I doubt it.” Russell gave a final pat to his tie and
glanced at the little clock on his chiffonier. “Come on and let’s eat,
Stick. We can talk about this later.”
Stick, however, chose to talk about it all the way to Lawrence and
would have talked about it during supper had Russell given him an
opportunity. But Russell dived into general conversation and left
his partner to silent and moody meditation. Stick was so thoroughly
alarmed that he ate almost nothing; and Stick’s appetite was normally
something to be proud of. Afterwards the subject was returned to and
the two came nearer to a quarrel than they ever had before. Only the
fact that Russell refused to get angry prevented it. Stick pleaded and
begged, argued and, at length, commanded, but Russell was not to be
moved.
“We agreed,” he said firmly, “that, as I had put more money into this
than you had, I was to have the say in such matters as this. And I’ve
thought it over carefully, Stick, and I mean to go right on as we’ve
been going. Look here, now. Suppose we agreed to Crocker’s plan. We
make an agreement with him not to sell goods below a certain price.
He had all the trade before and he will have it all again. He says
there is business enough for both of us. That listens well, but it
isn’t true. Our only chance of making good lies in getting a whole
lot of trade away from him if we can do it. And we’re doing it. And
that’s what’s worrying him. He’s been selling things at a big profit,
just as though the War hadn’t ever stopped, and there’s been no one to
interfere with it. Now we come along and put a fair price on our goods
and, of course, we’re getting customers away from him. Every day some
one comes in and says, ‘Why, Crocker asks fifty cents more than that,’
or sixty cents, or whatever it may be. He realizes that he’s either got
to scare us into an agreement on prices or lower his own prices; yes,
and put better goods in stock, too! He hates to get less than he’s been
getting, and so he tries to frighten us. Well, he can’t do it. We don’t
frighten. As for driving us away, why, he will find that we’re hard to
drive, Stick. He simply can’t do it.”
“That’s all well enough to say,” replied Stick desperately, “but how do
you know he can’t? Suppose he lowers his prices below ours? Then what
happens? Why, folks go to him, of course, and we sit and whistle. And
then the rent comes due and a lot of bills come piling in and--bingo!
good-by, Football!”
“Crocker will have to cut a lot below our prices, Stick, to get any
trade away from us. In the first place, we sell better stuff. You know
that yourself. Then we treat customers a heap better, and we know our
stock. But, if we do begin to slip, we’ll cut prices, too. We can play
that game just as well as he can.”
“No, we can’t! He’s got all sorts of other goods to sell, and we
haven’t. He could run his sporting goods department at a loss for
months and not have to worry!”
“He would worry, just the same,” said Russell, smiling. “I know
Crocker’s sort. He’d worry if a clerk sold a five cent screwdriver at
less than ten! But never mind that. Those P. and F. folks are after
business, Stick. They’re making a hard drive to introduce their goods
here in the east, and, I think, they’re having difficulty. The other
folks are fighting them for every inch. Now if I run over to New York
and tell them that Crocker is cutting prices on rival goods they’ll
stand back of us, I’ll bet. They’ll sell to us at prices that’ll let us
meet Crocker and go him one better.”
“That’s what you think,” sneered Stick. “You always think what you want
to think, Rus. That’s your trouble. You’re too blamed optimistic. I’d
rather hear the P. and F. folks say so before I banked on it!”
“They’ll say so when the time comes,” replied Russell cheerfully. “But
I don’t believe it will come.”
“I know you don’t,” said Stick disgustedly. “But I do! All right, go
ahead in your own stubborn, silly-ass way and ruin us! I’ve said all I
have to say. Except this. I wish to goodness I’d never gone into this
fool thing, and if I could get out of it--”
[Illustration: “I wish to goodness I’d never gone into this fool thing”]
“We’re making pretty fair profits now, Stick,” returned Russell
quietly, “and maybe, later, we can arrange it.”
“Huh!” snorted Stick. “Later! By that time there won’t be anything left
to arrange!”