worth more than
that . “I’ll think about it
and get back to you, Mr. Howell.”
“Well . . . you don’t want to wait too long,
son. I’m doing you a favor by taking it off your hands, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I understand completely.” And
Harland did understand, completely.
Harland had always made it his business to
know who had money and who didn’t. One of those with money owned the store
where he worked. The next morning, he executed his newly formed plan.
“Good morning, sir.” Harland maintained a
friendly if reserved relationship with his boss. He followed orders, did the
work assigned to him efficiently and occasionally asked for additional tasks so
as to always appear industrious and occupied.
“Good morning to you, Harland. Fine day.”
“Yes sir, it is . . . I suppose.” The slight
pause, the feigned uncertainty caught Mr. Wagner’s attention.
“Something on your mind, Harland?” Mr.
Wagner considered himself a beneficent man, and he welcomed this rare
opportunity to prove himself helpful to Harland.
“Well, sir . . . if you don’t mind . . . I
wonder if you could offer some advice? Mr. Howell seems to want to buy my land
over there on Pearson. He offered me $350 and that seems like a lot of money to
me for such a little place, and all filled with debris the way it is. I’d like
to have the money, but I don’t want people to think I got too much for it—like
I’m greedy or something.”
The quick intake of
breath on Mr. Wagner’s part did not escape Harland’s notice. Just as I thought.
I’ve got him.
Mr. Wagner took a moment before responding.
“Three hundred fifty dollars must seem like
a great deal of money to you, son.” That word again. Son. Harland kept his
irritation hidden.
“But it really is kind of low for the nice
piece of land you’ve got there. How big is it? I think I heard somewhere it was
an acre. Maybe in the paper after the fire?”
“I’m not sure, sir. About that I think.” In
fact, it fell barely shy of a full acre. Harland had already checked.
“Well then, you may be able to get more than
$350 for it. Why, I’ll take it off your hands and give you $400. How does that
sound?”
“Sounds mighty nice, Mr. Wagner, but surely
that’s too much?”
“Not at all, son. I’d be happy to help a
young man like you by paying him a fair price.”
Mr. Wagner confirmed Harland’s belief that
he had a valuable piece of property. He spent the next day having much the same
conversation with other local businessmen. He went back to Mr. Howell, who made
a counter offer. He entertained an even higher bid from the owner of the men’s
store on Patton Avenue. He made the rounds, reporting back to each man about
the higher offer from someone else. In the end, Mr. Wagner won the bidding war
and paid hundreds of dollars more than the first offer made by Mr. Howell. Harland
earned his nest egg and in the process gave birth to his reputation as a shrewd
businessman.
Plato once said: “The direction in which
education starts a man will determine his future in life.” Harland’s Stumptown
education set him on a path that eventually led to the pompous, self-absorbed
man standing at the curb, imagining his dream house on Chestnut Street. A man
who had decided at a very early age it was better to be rich than poor, selfish
than generous, haughty than humble. A man who Mazie, the only person who had
ever truly loved him, ultimately counted as one of the biggest disappointments
of her life.
Harland
had slipped unwillingly into memories of his childhood, and he brought himself
back now to focus on the sloped hill where he would build his new home.
Harland’s dream house would have turrets, sun rooms, an expansive wrap-around
sleeping porch, winsome nooks and crannies to delight visitors of all
persuasions and a glorious kitchen. The master bedroom would be massive in
proportion and decorated with the finest handmade furniture, linens and carpets
he could find. An
that . “I’ll think about it
and get back to you, Mr. Howell.”
“Well . . . you don’t want to wait too long,
son. I’m doing you a favor by taking it off your hands, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I understand completely.” And
Harland did understand, completely.
Harland had always made it his business to
know who had money and who didn’t. One of those with money owned the store
where he worked. The next morning, he executed his newly formed plan.
“Good morning, sir.” Harland maintained a
friendly if reserved relationship with his boss. He followed orders, did the
work assigned to him efficiently and occasionally asked for additional tasks so
as to always appear industrious and occupied.
“Good morning to you, Harland. Fine day.”
“Yes sir, it is . . . I suppose.” The slight
pause, the feigned uncertainty caught Mr. Wagner’s attention.
“Something on your mind, Harland?” Mr.
Wagner considered himself a beneficent man, and he welcomed this rare
opportunity to prove himself helpful to Harland.
“Well, sir . . . if you don’t mind . . . I
wonder if you could offer some advice? Mr. Howell seems to want to buy my land
over there on Pearson. He offered me $350 and that seems like a lot of money to
me for such a little place, and all filled with debris the way it is. I’d like
to have the money, but I don’t want people to think I got too much for it—like
I’m greedy or something.”
The quick intake of
breath on Mr. Wagner’s part did not escape Harland’s notice. Just as I thought.
I’ve got him.
Mr. Wagner took a moment before responding.
“Three hundred fifty dollars must seem like
a great deal of money to you, son.” That word again. Son. Harland kept his
irritation hidden.
“But it really is kind of low for the nice
piece of land you’ve got there. How big is it? I think I heard somewhere it was
an acre. Maybe in the paper after the fire?”
“I’m not sure, sir. About that I think.” In
fact, it fell barely shy of a full acre. Harland had already checked.
“Well then, you may be able to get more than
$350 for it. Why, I’ll take it off your hands and give you $400. How does that
sound?”
“Sounds mighty nice, Mr. Wagner, but surely
that’s too much?”
“Not at all, son. I’d be happy to help a
young man like you by paying him a fair price.”
Mr. Wagner confirmed Harland’s belief that
he had a valuable piece of property. He spent the next day having much the same
conversation with other local businessmen. He went back to Mr. Howell, who made
a counter offer. He entertained an even higher bid from the owner of the men’s
store on Patton Avenue. He made the rounds, reporting back to each man about
the higher offer from someone else. In the end, Mr. Wagner won the bidding war
and paid hundreds of dollars more than the first offer made by Mr. Howell. Harland
earned his nest egg and in the process gave birth to his reputation as a shrewd
businessman.
Plato once said: “The direction in which
education starts a man will determine his future in life.” Harland’s Stumptown
education set him on a path that eventually led to the pompous, self-absorbed
man standing at the curb, imagining his dream house on Chestnut Street. A man
who had decided at a very early age it was better to be rich than poor, selfish
than generous, haughty than humble. A man who Mazie, the only person who had
ever truly loved him, ultimately counted as one of the biggest disappointments
of her life.
Harland
had slipped unwillingly into memories of his childhood, and he brought himself
back now to focus on the sloped hill where he would build his new home.
Harland’s dream house would have turrets, sun rooms, an expansive wrap-around
sleeping porch, winsome nooks and crannies to delight visitors of all
persuasions and a glorious kitchen. The master bedroom would be massive in
proportion and decorated with the finest handmade furniture, linens and carpets
he could find. An
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