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Mercheson knew how to get orders; he knew that the thing to do is to stay with the trade. So he leaned against the work bench and began: "This is a great town, Mr. McHurdie; we're always hearing from Sycamore Ridge.
But instead of a customer, Mr. J. K. Mercheson, J. K. Mercheson representing Barber, Hancock, and Kohn, yes, the whip trust; that's what they call it, but it is really an industrial organization of the trade, Mr. J. K. Mercheson of New York came in. No, McHurdie did not need anything at present, and he backed into the shop.
I was in the smoker of the sleeper last evening coming out of Chicago, and we got to talking about him and Lord, how the fellows did roast him." "They did?" asked Barclay, from his chair behind the stove. "Sure," replied Mr. Mercheson; "roasted him good and brown. There wasn't a man in the smoker but me to stand up for him." "So you stood up for the old scoundrel, did you?" asked Barclay.
Wasn't that funny?" Barclay laughed grimly, and answered, "Well, it was pretty funny considering that I'm John Barclay." The suspense of the group in the shop was broken, and they laughed, too. "Oh, hell," said Mr. Mercheson, "come off!" Then he turned to McHurdie and tried to talk trade to him. But Watts was obdurate, and the man soon left the shop, eying Barclay closely.
When I'm in the East they say, 'What kind of a town is that Sycamore Ridge where Watts McHurdie and your noted reformer, Robert Hendricks, who was offered a place in the cabinet, and this man John Barclay live?" Mr. Mercheson paused for effect. Mr. McHurdie smiled and went on with his work. "Say," said Mr. Mercheson, "your man Barclay is in all the papers this morning.
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