old Army lorries, mainly Dodges and Bedfords. Now they’re needing spares and tyres to keep them on the roads. When I heard that the Government was disposing of some W.D. transport I decided to act at once and get in first. I bought five quite good Bedfords and a quantity of spares. They’re garaged in a barn belonging to a friend of mine down on Romney Marsh and I thought of sending Boyd up to get them painted—they’re in good running order, but they don’t look up to much. Now I’m convinced that I can sell them to an Italian in London on a payment on delivery basis. He’ll also buy the spares. I reckon we’ll make about 100 per cent profit. The spares can be stowed under the trucks and I thought we’d load the trucks with cigarettes which are in very short supply in Italy. Nowdoes that sound a good proposition? We’ve got to risk something if we’re going to establish ourselves. And I’ve got the export permits.”
I had to admit it sounded all right. His enthusiasm was, as always, infective. “What about payment?” I asked. “Will they pay in sterling?”
“No, in goods,” he said. “Their difficulty is foreign exchange. If they could purchase direct they would have done so themselves long ago. That’s why there is a big profit in the deal if we can barter for a cargo that we can sell. Now I thought of opening a wholesale and mail order business in London for wines and liqueurs. Vermouth, Marsala, Spumante, Grappa, Benedetto, Strega, Triple Sec, Anisette,—there’ll be some good stuff produced this season and cheap.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be slow,” he admitted. “But it’ll be profitable. Over the next twelve months I figure that we’ve got a good chance of making a profit of something over £10,000 and at the same time of establishing a sound business.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” I said.
“Well, do I go ahead?” he asked, “Or do you think of something better?”
“You go ahead,” I said. “If you’re prepared to take the risk, so am I.”
“Right,” he said. “Now this is what I propose to do. I’ve found a friend of mine who’s got a job he doesn’t like. He has a little money put by and we’ll take him into partnership on the wine side of the business, the basis being that he runs it, we supply him at cost plus carriage and we split the profit three ways. Incidentally, he’s already agreed to the idea and furthermore he is prepared to quit his job forthwith and start canvassing the big grocery stores for advance orders so that we’ve got an idea of how it’s likely to work in practice and what wines and liqueurs are preferred before we accept such a cargo in exchange for our lorries and spares.”
It sounded a pretty sensible idea. I had never seen any Italian drink other than vermouth displayed in shopwindows and yet thousands of men had come back talking of Strega and Marsala, Lacrimo Cristi and Frascati and Aurum. Housewives were bound to fall for it.
“Another thing,” Stuart said, “I’ve buttoned up our agreement. We’re now a private limited company. Our capital is 10,000 fully paid £1 shares—you own 5,000 and I own 5,000. The entire share capital is represented by one item, the ship. I’ve called ourselves Cunningham and McCrae Ltd. I’ll fix up the wine side of the business as soon as I get back to London. We’ll call it Fosdyk and Coy., Ltd.—that’s my pal’s name—and the shares will be in three equal lots.”
The next morning he was away again, taking Boyd with him, and Dugan and I got on with the refitting. Within a fortnight we’d nothing to do but paint and build in wardroom and mess fittings and bunks. When the painting was done and I had painted the name Trevedra on her sides and stern, I went down on to the sands at high tide and took her photo with a camera I had acquired. I wanted the picture for Sarah.
I wired Stuart that we were ready to sail when he gave the word and then had a final orgy of
I had to admit it sounded all right. His enthusiasm was, as always, infective. “What about payment?” I asked. “Will they pay in sterling?”
“No, in goods,” he said. “Their difficulty is foreign exchange. If they could purchase direct they would have done so themselves long ago. That’s why there is a big profit in the deal if we can barter for a cargo that we can sell. Now I thought of opening a wholesale and mail order business in London for wines and liqueurs. Vermouth, Marsala, Spumante, Grappa, Benedetto, Strega, Triple Sec, Anisette,—there’ll be some good stuff produced this season and cheap.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be slow,” he admitted. “But it’ll be profitable. Over the next twelve months I figure that we’ve got a good chance of making a profit of something over £10,000 and at the same time of establishing a sound business.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” I said.
“Well, do I go ahead?” he asked, “Or do you think of something better?”
“You go ahead,” I said. “If you’re prepared to take the risk, so am I.”
“Right,” he said. “Now this is what I propose to do. I’ve found a friend of mine who’s got a job he doesn’t like. He has a little money put by and we’ll take him into partnership on the wine side of the business, the basis being that he runs it, we supply him at cost plus carriage and we split the profit three ways. Incidentally, he’s already agreed to the idea and furthermore he is prepared to quit his job forthwith and start canvassing the big grocery stores for advance orders so that we’ve got an idea of how it’s likely to work in practice and what wines and liqueurs are preferred before we accept such a cargo in exchange for our lorries and spares.”
It sounded a pretty sensible idea. I had never seen any Italian drink other than vermouth displayed in shopwindows and yet thousands of men had come back talking of Strega and Marsala, Lacrimo Cristi and Frascati and Aurum. Housewives were bound to fall for it.
“Another thing,” Stuart said, “I’ve buttoned up our agreement. We’re now a private limited company. Our capital is 10,000 fully paid £1 shares—you own 5,000 and I own 5,000. The entire share capital is represented by one item, the ship. I’ve called ourselves Cunningham and McCrae Ltd. I’ll fix up the wine side of the business as soon as I get back to London. We’ll call it Fosdyk and Coy., Ltd.—that’s my pal’s name—and the shares will be in three equal lots.”
The next morning he was away again, taking Boyd with him, and Dugan and I got on with the refitting. Within a fortnight we’d nothing to do but paint and build in wardroom and mess fittings and bunks. When the painting was done and I had painted the name Trevedra on her sides and stern, I went down on to the sands at high tide and took her photo with a camera I had acquired. I wanted the picture for Sarah.
I wired Stuart that we were ready to sail when he gave the word and then had a final orgy of
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