“Mr. Ashe—Mr. James Ashe, Junior. Can anybody direct me to him?” “I am Mr. Ashe,” said Jim, stepping forward. “Delighted to meet you, young man.” The dapper little gentleman stood off at arm’s-length to appraise him. “Don’t favor your daddy much. Foot longer and two feet narrower.” He chuckled gaily. “My name’s Welliver—Morton J. Welliver. Bet you’ve heard of me, eh? Bet you’ve heard daddy mention me once or twice.” “Of course. Your name, with Mr. Jenkins’s and Mr. Plum’s and Mr. Mannikin’s, is pretty average familiar to me. I hope everything is satisfactory at your plant.” “Satisfactory? My boy, the Brockville Hardwood Company is booming. Now’s the day for the clothespin man. We’re at the top of the heap. Prices up, competition down, market hungry. But what’s this I hear about daddy? Wired him I wanted to see him on clothespin business. He wired back: ‘Out of the game. Son owns plant—lock, stock, and barrel. Tell it to him.’ Now, what’s that mean?” “Just what it says, I expect. Father has gone to California with mother. The plant’s mine.” “Clothespin Jimmy quit! Can’t believe it. Thought he’d die with one foot on a maple log and a clothespin in each hand. Well! Well! So you and I have to talk business, eh?” “If there’s any to talk,” said Jim. “I reckon there’s some—some. Where’ll we go to do it?” “We might walk out a piece and sit on a fence,” said Jim, with a grin. “It’ll be more comfortable, and we can argue and swing our arms better.” “Good enough. Which way?” They walked along, Welliver doing most of the conversing. Indeed, it was Mr. Welliver’s habit to do most of the conversing. He owned a great many words and was willing to part with them freely—but not unwisely. It was said by men in the business that Mr. Welliver could keep you entertained for an evening and not utter a word of what was on his mind. Clothespin Jimmy once told him he was like the what-d’ye-call-’em fish that squirted out a cloud of ink and then hid in it. “Guess we can stop here,” said Jim when they arrived at a spot overlooking the flat on which the new mills were rising. “That’s the plant below.” “Um! Some bigger than the old one, eh? What’s the idea? Going to take all the business away from us old fellows?” “I guess you and Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Plum and Mr. Mannikin can look after your share, if all I’ve heard is true.” “We can try. We can try. And that, my boy, is the very reason I’m here. I’m told you’re putting in six more clothespin machines than you had in the old plant.” Jim nodded. “That means about one hundred and twenty-five thousand additional five-gross boxes going on to the market.” “So father says.” “Well, son, the Club don’t look on that with a favorable eye. Of course you know the Club?” “Clothespin Club? I know we’re members of it with seven other mills.” “But do you know what it has done for the business? How it has taken a scramble of unprofitable competition and turned it into a smooth-running machine?” “Something about it.”