Harry seemed very excited about something, but underneath his excitement was the sleepy contentment I remembered from high school.  “I haven’t any right to relax,” he said.  “Everybody in the whole damn industry is relaxing.  If I relax, down comes the roof.  Ten thousand men out of jobs.”  He seized my arm.  “Count their families, and you’ve got a city the size of Terre Haute hanging by a thread.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.  “Why are they hanging by a thread.”

“The industry!” said Harry.

“What industry?” I asked.

“The catchup industry,” said Celeste.

Harry looked at me.  “What do you call it? Catchup? Ketchup? Catsup?”

“I guess I call it different things at different times,” I said.

Harry slammed his hand down on the coffee table.  “There’s the story of the catchup-ketchup-catsup industry in a nutshell!  They can’t even get together on how to spell the name of the product.  If we can’t even hang together that much,” he said, “we’ll all hang separately.  Does one automobile manufacture call automobiles ‘applemobiles,’ and another one ‘axlemobiles,’ and another one ‘urblemowheels’?”

“Nope,” I said.

“You bet they don’t,” said Harry.  [. . .]

[. . .]

“Good night, Celeste,” I said.  “I’m glad you’re such a success.  How could you miss with that face, that voice, and the name Celeste Divine?  You didn’t have to change a thing, did you?”

“It’s just the opposite with catchup,” said Harry.  “The original catchup wasn’t anything like what we call catchup or ketchup or catsup.  The original stuff was made out of mushrooms, walnuts, and a lot of other things.  It all started in Malaya.  Catchup means ‘taste’ in Malaya.  Not many people know that.”

“I certainly didn’t,” I said.  “Well, good night.”

[. . .]

[. . .]

“I’ve often wondered,” I said, “how the original catchup would go over in this country—made the way they make it in Malaya.”

A moment before, Mr. Bunting had been a sour old man, morbidly tidying his life.  Now he was radiant.  “You know catchup?” he said.

[. . .]

Mr. Bunting’s face clouded over with sadness.  “I and my father,” he said hoarsely, “and my father’s father made the finest catchup this world has ever known.  Never once did we cut corters on quality.”  He gave an anguished sigh.  “I’m sorry I sold out!” he said.  “There’s a tragedy for someone to write: A man sells something priceless for a price he can’t resist.”

[. . .]