As Mr. Carleton piled assertion upon assertion Anthony began to feel a sort of disgusted confidence in him. The man appeared to know what he was talking about. Obviously prosperous, he had risen to the position of instructing others. It did not occur to Anthony that the type of man who attains commercial success seldom knows how or why, and, as in his grandfather’s case, when he ascribes reasons, the reasons are generally inaccurate and absurd.
Anthony noted that of the numerous old men who had answered the original advertisement, only two had returned, and that among the thirty odd who assembled on the third day to get actual selling instructions from Mr. Carleton, only one gray head was in evidence. These thirty were eager converts; with their mouths they followed the working of Mr. Carleton’s mouth; they swayed in their seats with enthusiasm, and in the intervals of his talk they spoke to each other in tense approving whispers. Yet of the chosen few who, in the words of Mr. Carleton, “were determined to get those deserts that rightly and truly belonged to them,” less than half a dozen combined even a modicum of personal appearance with that great gift of being a “pusher.” But they were told that they were all natural pushers—it was merely necessary that they should believe with a sort of savage passion in what they were selling. He even urged each one to buy some stock himself, if possible, in order to increase his own sincerity.
On the fifth day then, Anthony sallied into the street with all the sensations of a man wanted by the police. Acting according to instructions he selected a tall office building in order that he might ride to the top story and work downward, stopping in every office that had a name on the door. But at the last minute he hesitated. Perhaps it would be more practicable to acclimate himself to the chilly atmosphere which he felt was awaiting him by trying a few offices on, say, Madison Avenue. He went into an arcade that seemed only semi-prosperous, and seeing a sign which read “Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect,” he opened the door heroically and entered. A starchy young woman looked up questioningly.
“Can I see Mr. Weatherbee?” He wondered if his voice sounded tremulous.
She laid her hand tentatively on the telephone-receiver.
“What’s the name, please?”
“He wouldn’t—ah—know me. He wouldn’t know my name.”
“What’s your business with him? You an insurance agent?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that!” denied Anthony hurriedly. “Oh, no. It’s a—it’s a personal matter.” He wondered if he should have said this. It had all sounded so simple when Mr. Carleton had enjoined his flock:
“Don’t allow yourself to be kept out! Show them you’ve made up your mind to talk to them, and they’ll listen.”
The girl succumbed to Anthony’s pleasant, melancholy face, and in a moment the door to the inner room opened and admitted a tall, splayfooted man with slicked hair. He approached Anthony with ill-concealed impatience.
“You wanted to see me on a personal matter?”
Anthony quailed.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said defiantly.
“About what?”
“It’ll take some time to explain.”
“Well, what’s it about?” Mr. Weatherbee’s voice indicated rising irritation.
Then Anthony, straining at each word, each syllable, began:
“I don’t know whether or not you’ve ever heard of a series of pamphlets called ‘Heart Talks’—”
“Good grief!” cried Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect, “are you trying to touch my heart?”
“No, it’s business. ‘Heart Talks’ have been incorporated and we’re putting some shares on the market—”
His voice faded slowly off, harassed by a fixed and contemptuous stare from his unwilling prey. For another minute he struggled on, increasingly sensitive, entangled in his own words. His confidence oozed from him in great retching emanations that seemed to be sections of his own body. Almost mercifully Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect, terminated the interview:
“Good grief!” he exploded in disgust, “and you call that a personal matter!” He whipped about and strode into his private office, banging the door behind him. Not daring to look at the stenographer, Anthony in some shameful and mysterious way got himself from the room. Perspiring profusely he stood in the hall wondering why they didn’t come and arrest him; in every hurried look he discerned infallibly a glance of scorn.
After an hour and with the help of two strong whiskies he brought himself up to another attempt. He walked into a plumber’s shop, but when he mentioned his business the plumber began pulling on his coat in a great hurry, gruffly announcing that he had to go to lunch. Anthony remarked politely that it was futile to try to sell a man anything when he was hungry, and the plumber heartily agreed.
This episode encouraged Anthony; he tried to think that had the plumber not been bound for lunch he would at least have listened.
Passing by a few glittering and formidable bazaars he entered a grocery store. A talkative proprietor told him that before buying any stocks he was going to see how the armistice affected the market. To Anthony this seemed almost unfair. In Mr. Carleton’s salesman’s Utopia the only reason prospective buyers ever gave for not purchasing stock was that they doubted it to be a promising investment. Obviously a man in that state was almost ludicrously easy game, to be brought down merely by the judicious application of the correct selling points. But these men—why, actually they weren’t considering buying anything at all.
Anthony took several more drinks before he approached his fourth man, a real-estate agent; nevertheless, he was floored with a coup as decisive as a syllogism. The real-estate agent said that he had three brothers in the investment business. Viewing himself as a breaker-up of homes Anthony apologized and went out.
After another drink he conceived the brilliant plan of selling the
