“Why, certainly,” George said. He was delighted that Robinson should pay hint such a compliment. “Yes, I think I can teach him a few tricks. Who is he?”
“Chap named Sydney Brant. Rum kind of a bloke, but he might get some business.” Robinson glanced at the clock above the bar. “He ought to be here any minute now. Take him out this afternoon and show him how to plant the forms, will you? And then take him with you when you make your calls tonight. Anyway, I don’t have to tell you what to do, do I?”
“You leave it to me,” George said, straightening up and feeling important. “Have another beer, Robo,” and he signalled to Gladys.
Robinson gave him a sly, amused look. He could see that George was delighted to be given some responsibility. That suited Robinson, as he was getting tired of showing new men how to get orders. If George wanted to do it, so much the better. Robinson had long since given up serious canvassing. He relied on his salesmen to get orders, and took from each an overriding commission. Now that George was showing promise as a reliable salesman, Robinson planned to shift the training onto his shoulders, and in time he hoped he would not have to do any of the work at all.
Gladys gave them two more pints, and George, who was hungry, ordered a beef sandwich.
“Want one?” he asked Robinson.
“Not just now,” Robinson returned. “It’s a bit early for me. I’ve only just got up.”
While George ate his sandwich, the bar began to fill up, and soon the place was crowded.
Suddenly, edging through the crowd at the bar, George noticed a thick-set young fellow with an untidy shock of straw-coloured hair coming towards them.
There was something about this young man that immediately arrested George’s attention. He had a livid scar—a burn—on his right cheek. The skin was raw and unsightly. George guessed the burn had only just been freed of its dressing. Then there was a look of starved intensity in his face, and his grey-blue eyes, heartless and hitter, were the most unfriendly George had ever seen.