George stared after him, an admiring look in his eyes. “He knows the business all right,” he said enthusiastically. “Believe me, he’s one of the best salesmen I’ve ever met.”
Brant sipped his lemonade and grimaced. “You can’t have met many,” he said, staring past George at the group of men at the end of the bar.
George started. “What do you mean? Why, Robo knows every trick in this game better than any salesman working for the Wide World.”
Brant’s expressionless eyes shifted from the group of men to George’s flushed face.
“He’s living on a bunch of suckers who’re fools enough to let him get away with it,” he said in flat, cold tones, like a judge pronouncing sentence.
George’s sense of fair play was outraged. “But its business. He trains us, so naturally we pay him a small commission. We couldn’t sell anything unless he tells us where to go and how to get our contacts. Be fair, old man.”
The white, thin face jeered at him “What do you call a small commission?”
“He told you, didn’t he?”
“I know what he told me, but what did he tell you?” Brant jerked a long lock of hair out of his eyes.
George put his tankard down on the bar. He felt it was for me this young fellow was taken down a peg or two. “We give Robo ten per cent of what we make. That’s fair, isn’t it? We get a quid for every order and we pay Robo two bob. Can’t call that profiteering, can you?” He studied Brant anxiously. “I mean Robo trains us and arranges our territory. Two bob isn’t much, is it?”