Brant shook his head. 'Not for me,' he said, 'but don't let that stop you.'
'We can manage without Robo all right,' George went on, after he had taken a pull from his tankard. 'I had a word with Head Office. I told them we preferred to work together, and Robo was willing. They don't care one way or the other so long as they get the orders.' He lit a cigarette, and for a moment enjoyed the feeling that he was now the head salesman, instructing a novice. 'The first thing you have to do when you're canvassing is to get into the house. It's easy once you know how. For instance, if you knock on the door and say 'Is Mr Jones at home?' the old girl is hound to ask 'Who is it?' If he isn't in, then you have to tell her the whole story, and the old man is tipped off when he does come home. That means he's ready for you when next you call. Don't forget the surprise visit gets the business.' George took another pull from his tankard, and then went on, 'If, on the other hand, you knock on the door, and when the old girl comes you raise your hat and begin to move away, and at the same time you say, 'I suppose Mr Jones is not in?' then she'll answer nine times out of ten, 'No, he isn't.' You then say, 'I'll look in some other time', and by that time you're halfway to the gate without telling her what you want.'
Brant shifted restlessly. 'I don't know if all that's so important,' he said.
'But it is,' George returned. 'You try it and see. Robinson worked out all the angles, and they're worth studying. Now, if the old man is at home, your question, 'I suppose Mr Jones isn't in?' gets the answer, 'Oh yes, he is', and as like as not she starts yelling for him. When he turns up, you'll find he'll lean against the doorpost, blocking your entrance and ask what you want. You mustn't tell him until you're inside the house.'
Brant had a far-away look in his eyes. He Seemed hardly aware of George's droning voice at his elbow.
'You must get inside before you start your sale, so you say,
'I've come to talk to you about Johnny's education.' That usually gets you in,' George went on. 'If he still won't ask you in, you put it to him straight. 'I wonder if I might come in? I can't very well talk to you on the doorstep.' '
'You've certainly got it wrapped up haven't you?' Brant said. 'Well, let's see it work. Come on, I'm sick of this pub.'
George consulted his packet of names and addresses. 'All right,' he said. 'Let's try Mr Thomas. He's got two kids: Tommy and Jean. It's important to know the children's names. The old man thinks you're a school inspector if you mention the kids by name, and you're inside before he finds out you're not.'
They walked along the wide arterial road, housed on either side by box-like Council dwellings. They were an odd-looking couple, and the women standing in the doorways, the men in their gardens and the children playing in the road, stared curiously at them.
'Here we are,' George said, uneasy under the battery of inquisitive eyes. He paused outside a drab little house, pushed open the wooden gate, and together they walked up the path.
George rapped on the door. There was a rush of feet and the door jerked open. Two small children, a boy and a girl, stared up at them with intent, wondering eyes.
'Is your father in?' George asked, smiling down at them. They did not move nor speak, but continued to gape at them.
Brant said, 'Get someone, can't you? Don't stand there gaping at me.' His voice snapped viciously, and the two children immediately turned and ran hack down the passage.
'Ma . . . Ma . . . there're two men . . .'
George and Brant exchanged glances.
'It's always the same,' George said. 'Damn kids . . .'
A middle-aged, slatternly-looking woman came down the passage, drying her pink, soap-softened hands on a dimly towel.
' 'Oo is it?' she asked, eyeing them suspiciously.
'I suppose Mr Thomas isn't in?' George asked, raising his hat and edging slowly away from the door.
' 'E's in the garden.' She raised her voice and shouted 'Bert . . .'ere . . .come 'ere . . .'
'That's all right,' George said hastily. 'We'll go round', and before the woman could protest, he left her and walked round to the hack garden.
Mr Thomas was resting after a bout of digging. He stood in the middle of a patch of newly turned ground, his cap at the back of his head, the spade thrust into the soil and the glow of sweat and health on his large, simple face.
He blinked when he saw George and Brant, and paused as he was about to light his pipe, uncertain, uneasy.
'Good evening, Mr Thomas,' George said, approaching with a cheerful smile and a wave of his hand. 'Getting ready for planting, eh? That soil looks good. By Jove! I envy you this garden.'
' 'Evening,' Mr Thomas grunted, and took off his cap to scratch his head.
'I wonder if you can spare us a moment?' George went on. 'We've come to have a little chat about Jean and Tommy I hear they're doing very well at school.'
Mr Thomas brightened; embarrassed suspicion left his face. 'From the school, are yer?' he said. He looked round the small garden a little helplessly, and then, raising his voice, he bawled, ''Ere, Emmie! Come 'ere, can't yer?'
Mrs Thomas and the two children joined them.
'These two gents are from the school,' Mr Thomas said, wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. He glared at the children. 'Wot 'ave you two bin up to?'
'Oh, it's nothing like that,' George put in hastily as the two children looked sheepish. 'Your kiddies are a credit to you both. They're doing so well at school I thought you might consider helping them to do even better.'
Mr Thomas looked blankly at his wife. 'I dunno about that . . .' he began, and, getting no support from his
