Jake just grinned at me and swore that there was nothing in his lard except the pure juice of the hog; so I quit fooling with him and took a can of “Driven Snow” around to our chemist.  It looked like lard and smelt like lard—­in fact, it looked better than real lard:  too white and crinkly and tempting on top.  And the next day the chemist came down to my office and told me that “Driven Snow” must have been driven through a candle factory, because it had picked up about twenty per cent. of paraffin wax somewhere.

Of course, I saw now why Jake was able to undersell us all, but it was mighty important to knock out “Driven Snow” with the trade in just the right way, because most of our best customers had loaded up with it.  So I got the exact formula from the chemist and had about a hundred sample cans made up, labeling each one “Wandering Boy Leaf Lard,” and printing on the labels:  “This lard contains twenty per cent. of paraffin.”

I sent most of these cans, with letters of instruction, to our men through the country.  Then I waited until it was Jake’s time to be at the Live Stock Exchange, and happened in with a can of “Wandering Boy” under my arm.  It didn’t take me long to get into conversation with Jake, and as we talked I swung that can around until it attracted his attention, and he up and asked: 

“What you got there, Graham?”

“Oh, that,” I answered, slipping the can behind my back—­“that’s a new lard we’re putting out—­something not quite so expensive as our regular brand.”

Jake stopped grinning then and gave me a mighty sharp look.

“Lemme have a squint at it,” says he, trying not to show too keen an interest in his face.

I held back a little; then I said:  “Well, I don’t just know as I ought to show you this.  We haven’t regularly put it on the market, and this can ain’t a fair sample of what we can do; but so long as I sort of got the idea from you I might as well tell you.  I’d been thinking over what you said about that lard of yours, and while they were taking a collection in church the other day the soprano up and sings a mighty touching song.  It began, ‘Where is my wandering boy to-night?’ and by the time she was through I was feeling so mushy and sobby that I put a five instead of a one into the plate by mistake.  I’ve been thinking ever since that the attention of the country ought to be called to that song, and so I’ve got up this missionary lard”; and I shoved the can of “Wandering Boy” under his eyes, giving him time to read the whole label.

“H—­l!” he said.

“Yes,” I answered; “that’s it.  Good lard gone wrong; but it’s going to do a great work.”

[Illustration:  “That’s it—­good lard gone wrong”]

Jake’s face looked like the Lost Tribes—­the whole bunch of ’em—­as the thing soaked in; and then he ran his arm through mine and drew me off into a corner.

“Graham,” said he, “let’s drop this cussed foolishness.  You keep dark about this and we’ll divide the lard trade of the country.”