He liked the work. It was fascinating
to put shafting and gears and a motor and a set of insentient wheels
together and make the assembled whole a thing of pulsing power that
leaped under the touch of a finger. But--a good salesman made thousands
where a good mechanic made hundreds. And money was the indispensable
factor--to such as he, who had none.
Fred Henderson had the satisfaction of seeing his theory verified.
Thompson made good from the start. In three months his sales were second
in volume only to Monk White, who was John P.'s one best bet in the
selling line. Henderson chuckled afresh over this verification of his
original estimate of a man, and Fred Henderson smiled and said nothing.
From either man's standpoint Wes Thompson was a credit to the house. An
asset, besides, of reckonable value in cold cash.
"New blood counts," John P. rumbled in confidence to his son. "Keeps us
from going stale, Fred."
When a twelvemonth had elapsed from the day Sophie Carr's red roadster
blew a tire on the San Mateo road and set up that sequence of events
which had landed him where he was, Thompson had left his hall bedroom at
the Globe for quarters in a decent bachelor apartment. He had a
well-stocked wardrobe, a dozen shelves of miscellaneous books, and three
thousand dollars in the bank.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245