“Well, I've been thinking over it all, Mr. Whipple--” Fred was slightly flushed--“and there is only one way I can see to make any move at all; but that really does seem to _me_ to offer _some_ chance of--” “Move? What is it? For God's sake, what is it?” “Why, you know you own the large retail store building which was vacated when Stimpson Brothers gave up, and you have not found a suitable tenant, there being no one but Thorp who wants it. It is in the very heart of the retail section, and the best-furnished building in town, with the best show-windows, and--” “Yes, yes; but what of that?” Whipple burst out, impatiently. “I don't care a snap for the rent of a mere house when I am being literally choked to death by a mob of devils.” “It wasn't that,” Walton said; “but there are hundreds of your personal friends in town who would gladly buy their home supplies from you if you would only accommodate them. There are many first-class wholesale houses which conduct retail stores in the towns they are in, and, you know, none of them ever had a better reason for doing it than you now have. It wouldn't hurt your trade out of town a bit, for your customers are not concerned in this fight; and a big, first-class, up-to-date retail store in the centre of town, supplied from our stock, would--” Whipple sprang up. His eyes were dancing with delight. He leaned over Walton and put his hands on his shoulders. “Great God, why didn't _I_ think of that?” he chuckled. “My boy, you are a dandy!--you are a wheel-horse! It will work like a charm. The thing advertises itself. We'll make 'em quake in their socks. They will laugh on the other sides of their faces now. And the beauty of it is, we can flaunt the thing on the public ten days before they can receive their first shipment; we'll bill the town in the morning, and cover the front of the new store with black letters. Whoopee! whoopee!” And in his heavy boots old Whipple actually executed a clumsy clog-dance. “And we'll let Dick manage it,” he went on, as he paused panting. “That sort of promotion would be a feather in his cap. As for you, you've got to pilot the _big_ ship, my boy. A head like yours needs big things to deal with. Lord, I see Thorp's face now, and, as for that other gang of cutthroats, they will actually die of dry rot!” Whipple gave another whoop, and shuffled his feet thunderously. “What is the matter up there?” It was Mrs. Whipple's astonished voice from below. “Matter nothing!” her husband replied, as he leaned over the balustrade in the corridor and looked down. “Put the best supper you can rake up on the table. Kill the fatted calf, and don the royal purple! Me and this boy is going to celebrate. He has saved the ship! Get out a bottle of that grape wine, and let joy be unconfined. We're in the fight to stay now, and we're going to have a feast--a regular war-feast!” CHAPTER V