He had no further trouble with the pamphlet. It sold itself, but sitting still watching the wheels go round did not appeal to Sam, who had a thousand pounds to multiply. He hadn’t quite the hardihood to believe that he could multiply his thou sand as rapidly as he had the twenty-five which he paid Adams, but he felt that he was launched as a publisher and had nothing to publish.
His thoughts were diverted from that solecism one day when he went into Carter’s printing-office to speed up the foreman. The foreman admitted that the pace could be improved. “But I dunno, sir, that the boss wants it improved. There’s nothing in to follow this job of yours. You might say you’ve been the saving of Mr. Carter.”
Sam was thoughtful for a minute. He had not looked upon himself as the saviour of Mr. Carter and did not appreciate that character when it was thrust upon him. He went into Carter’s office.
“This little tract of mine,” he said (“tract” seemed the light description in that text-hung room), “is selling remarkably well, and the demand increases. Now, I’ve nothing to say about the past.-I came in here a total stranger and you quoted me accordingly. But it’s only fair to warn you that I have gone into prices with other printers and I may find it necessary to make a change.”
Carter made no effort to hide his dismay. “I hope you won’t do that, Mr. Branstone. At least, give me a chance of revising my price.”
“Once bitten,” said Sam, “is twice shy, and you don’t deny that you bit.”
“But surely business,” argued Carter, “is business.”
“It is,” said Sam grimly, “and if you’ll answer me a few questions on the understanding that this is a business interview and I’m not being impertinently inquisitive, I shall be obliged.”
“Thank you. How old are your printing-presses?”
“Consequently they are almost hopelessly out of date?”
Carter had a tenderness for those presses. They had been young when he was young, were bought when the world smiled on him and his business had its hedyay. They had kept him and he could not be disloyal now. “I believe that they have printed your tract efficiently, Mr. Branstone,” he defended them.
“Oh, there’s life in the old dogs yet,” said Sam. “I’m not proposing to make scrap-iron of them.”
