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. Considering his prospects he should have

been a fairly sanguine and well-contented young man.

As a matter of fact he had become so, within certain limits. A man whose

time is continuously and profitably occupied does not brood. Thompson

had found a personal satisfaction in living up to John P. Henderson's

first judgment of him. Through Fred Henderson and through his business

activities he had formed a little group of pleasant acquaintances.

Sophie Carr was growing shadowy--a shadow that sometimes laid upon him

certain regrets, it is true, but the mere memory of her no longer

produced the old overpowering reactions, the sense of sorry failure, of

a dear treasure lost because he lacked a man's full stature in all but

physical bulk.

It could easily have happened that Thompson would have embraced with

enthusiasm a future bounded by San Francisco, a future in which he would

successfully sell Groya cars until his amassed funds enabled him to

expand still further his material success. If that future embraced a

comfortable home, if a mate and affection suggested themselves as

possibilities well within his reach, the basis of those tentative

yearnings rested upon the need that dwells within every normal human

being, and upon what he saw happening now and then to other young

men--and young women--within the immediate radius of his observation.

But upon this particular May morning his mind was questing far afield.

The prime cause of that mental projection was a letter in his hand, a

letter from Tommy Ashe. Thompson had a lively imagination, tempered by

the sort of worldly experience no moderately successful man can escape. And

Tommy's letter--the latest in a series of renewed correspondence--opened

up certain desirable eventualities. The first page of Tommy's screed was

devoted to personal matters. The rest ran thus: Candidly, old man, your description of the contemplated Henderson

car makes a hit with me. The line I handle now is a fair seller.

But fair isn't good enough for me. I really need--in addition--to

have a smaller machine, to supply a pretty numerous class of

prospects. I should like to get hold of just such a car as you

describe. I am feeling around for the agency of a small, good

car. Send me all the dope on this one, and when it will be on the

market. There is a tremendous market here for something like that.

I'd prefer to take up a line with an established reputation behind

it. But the main thing is to have a car that will sell when you

push it. And this listens good.




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