‘Well, well, well, Bert, how’s the boy?’ he said.

‘Fine, fine! How’s everything by you, Fred?’

‘Swell! Couldn’t be better! The new Houndtooth station wagon is simply wiping all the other boys off the map. You bet. Well, how’s the little woman, Bert?’

‘Fine, fine! Just fine and dandy.’

‘Fine! And how’s the three young uns, Bert?’

‘Fine and dandy. Just fine. Say,’ and Mr. Whizzle laughed a good deal, ‘here was the funniest thing. Here couple nights ago we had the kids’ grandma over for supper, and I let Peggy — she’s the youngest — only six but bright’s a dollar — I let her stay up to say howdy to the old dame, and what d’ you think she said to her?’

‘What was it? Tell me!’ Fred’s enthusiasm was as untarnished as on the day, twenty-nine years ago, when, a cadet travelling man in hardware, he had sold his first glamorous order of sixteen tack hammers and one three-tined manure fork.

‘Well sir, believe me or not, the little tyke took one look at her grandmother and she pipes up and says, “Say, Gramma, does oo smoke cigarettes?” Well, sir, I thought I’d die! What d’ you think of Roosevelt’s New Deal, Fred?’

Fred meditated swiftly. Confound it, he couldn’t remember whether Mr. Whizzle was a Democrat or a Republican. (It may be added that there were times when Fred could not remember whether he himself was a Sterling Republican or a Loyal Democrat.) He said weightily, ‘Way I see it: now you take F.D.R. I’m perfectly certain there ain’t a more humanitarian politician in the country — and what a voice on the radio! But same time, the needs and aspirations of the Republicans have got to be given every consideration. Way I see it!’

‘You bet! You’re dead right,’ said Mr. Whizzle feelingly. ‘Well say, Fred, got any interest in a couple ‘r three orders this morning? Like to make a little dough?’

‘Oh, I guess I could stand up under the foul blow — or fell blow, whichever it is. But the fact is . . . Now I don’t know whether you’ll believe this or not, but I’m not half as interested in the cash as I am in the fun of the game.’ He did not believe that Mr. Whizzle believed that he believed anything of the sort, but it made a nice, refined atmosphere.

‘Sure. Same way myself, Fred. Well, I’ve got orders for a Houndtooth convertible coop, de luxe, Persian green; a Triumph two-ton truck, closed body; and a Triumph special four-door sedan, Garden of Allah sand colour.’

‘Have ’em for you by tomorrow, if they aren’t already in stock,’ chuckled Fred, as into the office charged his assistant, Paul Popple, bawling, ‘Mr. Cornplow, we’ve got hold of the biggest thing . . .!’

‘Just a minute! Just a minute, Paul! Can’t you see I’m busy? You know Mr. Whizzle?’

‘Oh — oh sure,’ said Popple, as vaguely as a bridegroom. When Mr. Whizzle was gone, Fred turned on Popple with, ‘Look here, son! Am I never going to learn you that it’s these sub-agents that push off most of the cars we sell? Who do you think you are, anyway?’