onically: "to
get fair competition?"

Again, Morton laughed aloud, in keen enjoyment of the thrust.

"You're your own father's son, Hamilton," he declared, gaily.

Hamilton, however, was not to be cajoled into friendliness by
superficial compliment.

"Probably," he said sternly, "I might not have been able to do so well,
if you had not been clever enough to let both Carrington and myself each
see the figures of the other's secret bid as a great personal favor."

As the words entered Carrington's consciousness, the ungainly form sat
erect with a sudden violence of movement that sent the chair sliding
back three feet over the polished floor. The red face darkened to a
perilous purple, and the narrow, dull eyes flashed fire. He struggled
gaspingly for a moment to speak--in vain. Morton's eyes were fixed on
the man, and those eyes were very clear and very cold. Carrington met
the steady stare, and it sobered his wrath in a measure, so that
presently he was able to utter words intelligibly. But, now, they were
not what they would have been a few seconds earlier:

"You--you told him what I bid?"

Hamilton took the answer on himself.

"Surely, he did, Carrington." The young man spoke with cheerfulness, in
the presence of the discomfiture of his enemy. "He told you what I bid;
and, in just the same way, he told me what you bid--every time!"

For a long minute, Morton stared on at his underling whom he had
betrayed. Under that look, the unhappy victim of a superior's wiles, sat
uneasily at first, in a vague effort toward defiance; then, his courage
oozed away, he shifted uneasily in his seat, and his eyes wandered
abashedly about the room. Convinced that the revolt was suppressed,
Morton turned again to the young man opposite him.

"All that is done with now." The tone was sharp; the mask of urbanity
had fallen from the resolute face, which showed now an expression
relentless, dominant. "Hamilton, what are you going to do?" The manner
of the question was a challenge.

"I can't make money selling boxes at eleven cents," Hamilton answered
wearily. "Nobody could."

"At least, you won't lose any," was the meaning answer. Then, in reply
to Hamilton's half-contemptuous shrug, Morton continued frankly. "After
all, Hamilton, you can make a profit. It won't be large, but it will be
a profit. This is the day of small profits, you must remember. It will
be necessary for you to put in a few more of the latest-model machines,