"It's well made," he admitted; "but what's the use? I could deliver your week's output in my pocket, and on the way back could spend the money getting my shoes shined; all because you haven't the wherewith to advertise." "I got a little money," insisted the other aggressively, touched on a point of pride; "money I saved and pinched and scraped together; but it ain't enough to push a cigar. Some of these big manufacturers spread around a fortune on a new brand before they sell a single box. There's John Crewly & Company. They spent a hundred thousand dollars advertising Blue Rings." "And you small dealers have handed it back to them," laughed Wallingford. "You pay that advertising difference above what the cigar is worth." "Ten times over!" exploded Mr. Nickel. "The houses that buy in big quantities get them for below twenty-eight, I've heard. But that's where the government is rotten! It's fixed so the little man always gets it in the neck. Combines and trusts eat us up. Every man that joins a consolidation ought to get ten years at hard labor." "Don't grouch," advised Wallingford, grinning; "consolidate. If all the small dealers in this town formed a consolidation, they could buy their supplies in quantity for spot cash and get the lowest price going." Ed Nickel looked out of the window at the clanging street cars and digested this palatable new idea. "I reckon they could," he mused, "if there was any way to work it so they wouldn't all spike each other trying to get the best of it," and J. Rufus chuckled as he recognized this business anarchist's willingness to undergo an instant change of opinion about consolidation. The door opened, and a tall, thin man, with curly gray hair and a little gray goatee, strode nervously in and threw a half dollar on the case. "Two packs of Kiosks," he demanded. Almost in the same breath he saw Wallingford, whose face was at that moment illuminated by the lighter to which he held his cigar. "J. Rufus, by Heck!" he exclaimed. Before Wallingford could give voice to his amazement the strangely altered Blackie Daw was shaking hands eagerly with him. "You probably don't remember me," went on Blackie with an expansive grin. "Rush is the name. I. B. Rush, and I never was so bug-house glad to see anybody in my life!" The eyes of Wallingford twinkled. "Well, well, well, Mr. Rush! How you have changed!" he declared. Blackie shook his head warningly. "Nix on the advertisement," he cautioned. "Wallingford, you're the long-sought message from home! Feel in your vest pocket and see if there isn't an overlooked hundred or two down in the corner." J. Rufus was cheerful, nay, happy, complaisance itself. "Certainly, Mr. Rush," he said heartily; "a thousand if you want it. Just step over to the bank with me till I draw the money," and they walked out of the door. With a sigh the flabby man laid the long-suspended jack of hearts upon the queen of spades.