He'd make just
the man I need for an understudy when we get that Oakland plant going."
"Tush," Henderson snorted inelegantly. "Salesmen are born, not made--the
real high-grade ones. And the factories are turning out mechanical
experts by the gross."
"I know that," his son grinned. "But I like Thompson. He gives you the
feeling that you can absolutely rely on him."
"Send him up to me," John P. repeated--and when John P. issued a fiat
like that, even his son did not dispute it.
And Thompson was duly sent up. He did not go back to the shop on the top
floor where for six months he had been an eager student, where he had
learned something of the labor of creation--for Fred Henderson was
evolving a new car, a model that should have embodied in it power and
looks and comfort at the minimum of cost. And in pursuance of that ideal
he built and discarded, redesigned and rebuilt, putting his motors to
the acid test on the block and his assembled chassis on the road.
Indeed, many a wild ride he and Thompson had taken together on quiet
highways outside of San Francisco during that testing process.
No, Thompson never went back to that after his interview with John P.
Henderson. He was sorry, in a way.
Pages:
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244