Knowing the canning factory owner like a book, I did not even suspect that they would consider the Worthy location. And as a matter of fact, the Board Committee apparently did not want the Worthy dump—only, at any rate, as a last resort. When I called on Mr. Worthy, he said, “I’ve given the Board of Trade fellows an option on it for $200, good until noon today. Come back here promptly at twelve o’clock. Now don’t wait until after dinner,” he warned. The Committee went to Mr. Worthy after one o’clock, asking for an extension of the option. That old canning factory was still in the way. And the owner did not exactly pat me on the back, but looked as if he wanted to when he learned that I had bought the Worthy dump. I did not get the doctor’s reaction to this—but I do know that, though we continued on friendly terms—we never had any clashes — he continued to “harp” for a competing paper, with political slant. Mr. Reckeway, being handy with hammer and saw, converted the old canning factory building into an elevator in time for the fall business. The people, including the Board of Trade boys, had an erroneous notion that an elevator operator could pay more for corn than the track buyer, and while the reverse is true, they had located their man with this belief. Then that new man did give me a merry chase—in fact he put me completely out for a spell. He paid more for corn than I could get for it. How come? Well, the BT boys gave credit to the old canning factory. They were wrong of course. It may be a little early to bring this in—but Mr. Reckeway was making some profit on the sale of a carload of flour he had brought in, but he could not count on a repeater in this line, for he had already been told by the canning factory vendor—who sold flour in his general store at substantially higher prices—to cut it out. It was made plain to the fellow that he had not been brought here to compete With the home merchants. I’ll get around to aft explanation of how and why Mr. Heckeway bid up the price on corn—but this seems the opportune time to slip in a line about the entry of a business which led all competition. And lo, the man was from Goff, the town which had furnished me a competitor in the grain business, and a politically minded doctor who wanted a competing paper—and ironically enough, the town whose advertising merchants, C. C. Abbott, John Wendell, and George Bickel, were the thorns that had been pricking the Board of Trade boys’ sensitive hides. Mr. C. C. Abbott, the live merchant—the man whose advertisements in my paper had given so much concern at the Board of Trade’s first meeting, and was the cause for that elaborate write-up, had moved in on them with a complete new stock of general merchandise, locating in the old Stowell brick building, the present Catholic recreation hall. Now, let ‘em kick!