"Just a second, Fred," he muttered, and took a step toward Thompson. His
eyes traveled swiftly from Thompson's face down over the suitcase and
blanket roll, and came back to that deliberate matching of glances.
"Do you happen to be looking for a position that requires energy,
ability, and a fair command of the English language?" he demanded
abruptly.
"Yes," Thompson answered briefly.
He wondered what was coming. Were they going to offer him the
chauffeur's job? Did they require a bruiser to drive the gray car?
"Know anything about motors?"
"Not the first principles, even." Thompson declared himself frankly. He
did possess a little such knowledge, but held a little knowledge to be a
dangerous admission.
"So much the better," the stout man commented.
He fished out a cardcase, and handed his card to Thompson.
"Call on me at ten o'clock to-morrow morning," he said briskly. "I'll
make you a proposition."
He did not permit inquiry into his motive or anything else, in fact, for
he got quickly into the car and it started off instantly, leaving Mr.
Wesley Thompson, a little bewildered by the rapidity of these
proceedings, staring at the card, which read:
John P.
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