“Sort of tall and thin; clean-shaven; wears a Panama hat about ten years old; lives at the Amesville Club, and has his office in the new building. Why?”
“Mr. York wants me to go and see him. They’re great friends. He was visiting Mr. Hall when he saw that game last spring, like I told you. Is he nice?”
“John Hall? I guess so. I don’t know him except to speak to. He’s been in here once or twice for golf balls. They say he’s one of the best players at the Country Club. He seems a nice sort, Sam. I don’t believe he’d bite you, anyway.”
“N-no,” answered Sam seriously, “but it seems sort of cheeky, doesn’t it? To call on a man you’ve never even seen, I mean.”
“You used to call on men you’d never seen when you sold that ‘Popular History of Ohio,’ or whatever it was, didn’t you?”
“That was different.”
“Yes; you were trying to do them out of their hard-earned money. All you want from Mr. Hall is a kind word.”
“That was a perfectly good book,” answered Sam defensively. “When do you suppose I’d find him at his office?”
Tom glanced at the little tin clock on his desk. “After nine, I guess.” He put his clasped hands behind his head, leaned back, and viewed his friend amusedly. “Sam, you’re an awful coward about some things, aren’t you?” he asked. “You wouldn’t hesitate to try and sell a book to a man, but you hate to just call socially.”
“I used to be scared to death every time I rang a doorbell when I was selling that book,” replied Sam, with a shake of his head. “I wish Mr. York had given me a letter of introduction to him.”