Chapter 13: Lifting a Stone Only to Drop It on One’s Own Foot

Today was Sunday, and the textile factory workers had the day off. Many people came to buy watermelons, keeping Wang Peng extremely busy. Du Lei was still responsible for delivering watermelons to the elderly, women, or those too lazy to come out themselves. However, his expression was troubled, and he seemed distracted, as if something weighed heavily on his mind.

Wang Peng decided to wait until after selling all the melons to have a heart-to-heart talk with him.

About ten meters from the main gate, Wang Song’s watermelon stall was almost deserted. In business, location was everything—even a slight difference could lead to vastly different results. The phrase "an inch of land is worth an inch of gold" was no exaggeration.

Residents of the housing compound rarely bypassed Wang Peng’s stall just to go to Wang Song’s. Such occurrences were nearly nonexistent.

“Comrade, how much for your watermelons?” a young woman asked Wang Song.

“Thirty cents per jin,” Wang Song replied eagerly, glad to finally have a customer.

The woman picked out three watermelons, placing them into a woven bag for weighing.

“Fourteen jin and one liang,” Wang Song said, showing her the scale, then turned to Wang Qiang to calculate the price.

Wang Qiang took a pencil and worked it out in his notebook. “Fourteen jin and one liang at thirty cents per jin comes to four yuan, twenty-three cents.”

The total included cents, which made the woman frown slightly. Her neighbor had told her that street sellers often rounded down the price, so why didn’t this man?

“I don’t have change. How about four yuan and twenty cents?” she asked.

“No, I can’t make a profit selling watermelons,” Wang Song quickly shook his head. “I have change; I’ll give it back to you.”

“I have change at home. Just deliver the melons to my place, and I’ll pay you then,” she said, pointing toward the housing compound. “My home is right at the gate.”

“Comrade, it’s only fourteen jin of melons—not heavy at all,” Wang Song said, unwilling to deliver.

He thought the woman was being fussy. His own ten-year-old daughter, Wang Zhen, often carried dozens of jin of wheat alone to the neighboring village to trade for steamed buns.

“No thanks,” the woman said, turning away.

Wang Song and his son were stunned as they watched her retreating figure.

Suddenly, Wang Song saw the woman approach Wang Peng’s watermelon stall.

She asked the price, selected three watermelons, and put them into a woven bag. The scale read sixteen jin and two liang.

“Sis, I’ll charge you for sixteen jin. You just give me four yuan and eighty cents,” Wang Peng said with a smile. “Lei, you go with her and deliver the melons.”

Du Lei nodded and slung the bag over his shoulder.

“This feels right—spending money comfortably,” the woman said as she paid. She glanced back at Wang Song and his son, sneering, “Serves them right for having no business. Serves you right for doing well.”

Feeling satisfied, she led Du Lei into the housing compound.

Across the way, Wang Song ground his teeth in anger. “Second son, you’re delivering watermelons for them now.”

“Dad, if I go, who’ll do the calculations for you?” Wang Cheng said, unwilling to exert himself.

Wang Song, uneducated and unable to handle the accounts, could only sigh.

“Dad, why don’t you supply the melons, and I’ll mind the stall?” Wang Cheng suggested.

Wang Song shook his head. He worried that if he left, his son would be cheated.

Around eleven-thirty, people returning from buying groceries came back. The sun was scorching today, and many bought watermelons to cool off.

Wang Peng was surrounded by customers again, while Wang Song’s stall remained ignored. His resentment grew hotter by the minute.

By four in the afternoon, Wang Peng had sold all his watermelons. “Lei, let’s go have some noodle stew—I’ll treat.”

“Let’s eat at home. Two bowls cost eight yuan; that’s a waste,” Du Lei said with a serious face, shaking his head.

“Eating isn’t a waste,” Wang Peng said, handing him a broom.

The brothers cleaned up, sweeping away watermelon rinds and vines, earning repeated praise from the gatekeeper, Huang Biao.

Across the street, Wang Song still had more than half his watermelons left. His anger had faded, replaced by a look of sorrow.

In two or three hours, night would fall, and he surely wouldn’t sell the rest. Taking them to the rural market would only fetch fifteen cents per jin, guaranteeing a loss.

If he came back tomorrow, he’d have to pay another fifty yuan road fee, pushing costs up to thirty cents per jin. What would be the point in selling then?

The more he thought, the angrier he became. Why had Wang Peng sold out? Why hadn’t he?

Gritting his teeth, he strode to the gate. “I’ve still got half a cart of melons. You sell them for me.”

“Sure,” Wang Peng said matter-of-factly. “I’ll give you nine cents a jin. Whatever you have, I’ll take.”

“You’re talking nonsense!” Wang Song snapped, losing control. “I told you to help me sell at thirty cents a jin, not give the melons away.”

“Why not?” Wang Peng fired back. “You kicked me out—why should I help you now?”

“Because I’m your father!” Wang Song was flushed with anger. “Ungrateful son, you’re cutting prices over my head?”

“Nine cents a jin—take it or leave it,” Wang Peng turned and walked away.

Wang Song hastily gave in. “Make it twenty cents. The melons cost fifteen cents wholesale plus fifty yuan road fee—costs add up to twenty cents.”

“I’m only giving nine cents because I’m taking the risk,” Wang Peng shook his head. “If they don’t sell, the rest can’t be sold at all. Taking them back home, they’re only good for pig feed.”

Most fruits are sensitive to bumps during transport. The ten-mile road from Duzhuang to the county town was rough.

One bumpy ride was bearable; three left the melons battered and bruised.

Within three to five days, watermelons begin to rot from the inside, so no one pays for melons like that.

“Nonsense,” Wang Song knew the truth but refused to accept it. “Don’t you have a conscience?”

“I always have a conscience,” Wang Peng said coldly. “Nine cents a jin—take it or leave it.”

Wang Song panted heavily, eyes almost shooting flames.

“Keep them for yourself, Lei. Let’s go eat,” Wang Peng said, pulling his cart away.

He had been too busy to eat all morning, and his stomach was protesting.

“Don’t leave!” Wang Song’s features twisted. “Give me fifteen cents so I lose less. The wholesale money for these melons is your brother’s tuition.”

At that moment, Wang Cheng’s eyes welled with tears. “Big brother, Dad isn’t lying. We were extorted fifty yuan by bullies when we came to town. Please don’t make things worse—I beg you.”

“What are you talking about making things worse? Business is mutual agreement. I never forced you to sell melons to me,” Wang Peng stared at him.

Du Lei couldn’t stand it any longer. “Uncle Wang, my family still has ten thousand jin of watermelons in the field. Who’d want your rotten melons?”

He took over the cart from Wang Peng. “Brother Peng, don’t waste time arguing. We still have to load the truck tonight.”

“Nine cents it is. Just wait,” Wang Song had no choice but to relent again.

If the melons were jostled much more, it wouldn’t be about losing money—it would be about not selling them at all.

Father and son brought the cart over.

Wang Song and Du Lei weighed the melons while Wang Peng made notes. It took over half an hour of back-and-forth.

In total, two hundred jin of watermelons remained. Wang Peng paid eighteen yuan, settling accounts cleanly.

Wang Song was so angry his stomach hurt. He had only sold a bit more than half the cart, losing over ten yuan in a whole day’s effort.

At that moment, two young men asked the price. “Little brother, how much for these melons?”

“Thirty cents a jin. Big brother, pick out some,” Wang Peng smiled.

“Cheaper? We want a few dozen jin,” said the round-faced youth.

“Brother, that’s the price countywide.” Wang Peng picked up a small melon. “No haggling. Here, try a small one.”

“That works,” the round-faced youth began selecting melons.

They chose forty jin, paying twelve yuan.

Wang Peng gave them two extra jin, and Du Lei delivered the melons to their home.

This quick sale earned them eight yuan profit.

Wang Song was both furious and envious. He hurriedly pulled his cart away, knowing staying would only make him sick with anger.

Wang Peng watched their retreating figures and suddenly found the whole situation laughable.

“You came to steal business and lost a lot of money—who can you blame? You’re just shooting yourself in the foot.”

He shook his head and continued guarding his watermelon stall, determined to sell the entire batch today.