“A fellow needs grit, grace, gumption, and a lot of missionary spirit to fight what I’m fighting, mister.  I ain’t going to say anything about a lot of obstacles the syndicate has put in my way.  Those were to be expected in the way of regular business competition.  But you can see I have only got limited resources here, and I can’t afford a big outfit in the city.  Sometimes I have run short, the best I could do—­and it’s mighty little sleep I have.  And the Consolidated drivers have refused to sell ice to anybody who has been buying of me even when mothers have pleaded so as to keep milk for sick babies from souring.  That’s orders from headquarters!  You wouldn’t think that the same big chaps who boss the governor of the state would get down to such nubbins as that, eh?  But they do—­that’s their system.  They used to tell me that it’s the only way a big syndicate can keep its grip—­never leave a bar down!  Yes, sir, they have blacklisted my customers until they’ll be good and give the Consolidated a yearly contract.  More than that, they pass word along that I’ll be out of business by another season and that folks who have bought of me this year will be given the go-by next!  Can you beat it?”

“Are you going to see out to them?”

“No,” said the iceman, grimly.  “There are two good reasons:  I won’t sell and they won’t buy.  They will kill me out so that nobody else will be encouraged to try the scheme again.”

“I want a job,” stated Farr, curtly.  “I want to work for you.  Give me a place on one of your carts in the city.”

“Say, look here,” blurted the other man, frankly astonished, “you look more like a gent than an iceman!”

“No matter what I look like.  The main question is, can I lug ice?  Feel of my muscle!”

“It may be a poor outlook for your pay—­working for me,” warned the proprietor.  “And if you ever want another job in Marion you may be blacklisted.  I don’t want to get you into a scrape.”

“I can’t be in any worse scrape than the one I am in now.  Haven’t I just told you who I am?”

“Oh, I know that!  I reckon you’re the same fellow.  But, see here, mister, I’m one of those simple kind of galoots—­and the less a man knows the more suspicious he is.  You ain’t wanting to work for me just because you need a job!”

“I do need a job!  I have spent the little money I had by me after I was fired by the Consolidated.  I had some special expenses—­the funeral of a—­a friend,” he added, wistfulness in his tones.  He drove his hand into his pockets and exhibited a few small coins in his palm when he pulled his hand out.  “That’s my cash—­every cent of it!”