weeks, but he doesn’t stay home long at a time. His territory is down through South Carolina and Georgia—all through there.”
“What did you say he was selling?” said Mr. Flood, who had been staring at the boy fixedly during all this conversation with his heavy expression of a slow, intent and brutal stupefaction.
“He sells lighting systems and pumps and farm equipment and machinery—for farms,” the boy said awkwardly.
“That’s Luke—who does that?” said Mr. Flood after a moment, when this information had had time to penetrate.
“Yes, sir. That’s Luke.”
“And he’s the one that stutters?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The one that used to have the agency for The Saturday Evening Post and did all that talking when he sold’em to you?”
“Yes, sir. That’s Luke.”
“And what d’you say he’s doing now?” said Mr. Flood heavily. “Selling farm machinery?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what he’s doing.”
“Then, by God,” said Mr. Flood, with a sudden and explosive emphasis which, after his former attitude of heavy, brutal stupefaction, was startling, “he’ll do it!” The other men laughed and Mr. Flood shook his ponderous, crimson head slowly from side to side to emphasize his conviction in the matter.
“If any one can sell’em, he’ll do it,” he said positively. “That boy could sell Palm Beach suits to the Esquimaux. They’d have to buy’em just to keep him from talking them to death.”
“I’ll tell you what I saw him do one time,” said the politician, shifting his weight a little in order to accommodate himself more comfortably to the motion of the train. “I was standing in front of the post office one day talking to Dave Redmond about some property he owned out on the Haw Creek Road—oh, it must have been almost fifteen years ago—when here he comes hustling along, you know, with a big bundle of his papers under his arm. Well, he sails right into us, talking about a mile a minute and going so fast neither of us had a chance to get a word in edgeways.’Here you are, gentlemen,’he says,’hot off the press, just the thing you’ve been waiting for, this week’s edition of The Saturday Evening Post, five cents, only a nickel, the twentieth part of a dollar.’By that time,” said Mr. Candler, “he had the thing all opened up and shoved up right under Dave Redmond’s nose, and he was turning the pages and telling him all about the different pieces it
