Skinner rather pitied her inexperience. "No, they're not. They're just like great, big boys. The most natural talkers in the world—simple, direct, clear."
"Do you ever talk?"
This question brought Skinner back to earth again. He was just Dearie now.
"Do I? Say, Honey, I've been isolated in that cage of mine so long that I thought I'd forgotten how to talk. But you'd be surprised to hear me—right in with the rest of them!"
"But you can't talk big things, Dearie, like them. You don't know big things."
"Bless you, they don't talk big things. They tell anecdotes. And they talk about the time when they were boys—and their early struggles. Every darned one of them came from a farm or a blacksmith shop. They all love to tell how often their fathers licked 'em. And they gossip about their old friends and things. The ride in is not business, Honey, it's social. There's one thing I've discovered in that Pullman Club," he went on. "These fellows are n't any cleverer than many a man in my position, but they've realized that it's just as easy to play with blue chips as with white ones—and they've got the nerve to do it."
"I don't catch on."
"It's just as easy to play with dollars as with dimes—just as easy to write an order for a thousand as for ten. And it's easier to do business with big men. They're more imaginative, quicker to grasp."
"That's how they got there," Honey interjected.
"But particularly, Honey, these men are all keen students of human nature. They can size a man up—gee! 'Brown's able,' says one. 'Yes, but he's tricky,' says another. 'Carpenter's honest, but he's a fool.' With the 'gold bugs' credit is a combination of honesty and ability."