"Exactly," he continued, gratified, "and that's only appearance I'm talking about. The big thing is personal relations. Look how often somebody takes me for an easy-mark and tries to slip something over. I fool 'em, don't I? That's because I keep studying myself. I say to myself, say I, 'Look here, J.C., this bird thinks he's smart; now show him you're smarter.' Good system, eh? That's what comes of taking an objective view of yourself. That's why I keep all those psychology books around. You have no idea—"
"It must be grand to be so masterful, to be able to hold down such a big position ... and ... and all that," she said, hoping the blush it cost her wouldn't be noticed.
But there was a diversion at hand. Ellis Hardy was approaching and she knew without being told what was about to happen. In line of duty she listened in—with the connivance of Miss Perkins, the PBX operator—on salesmen's telephone conversations. In fact, she was the modest source of much of Mr. Chisholm's omniscience.
Hardy came in without the ceremony of knocking, and promptly sat down on top of Chisholm's desk. He threw down a sheaf of filled-out orders. A certified check running to five figures was clipped to the top.
"Got 'em," announced Hardy with a self-satisfied smirk. "Eight SXV units, motor-driven, complete with accessories and a year's supply. That's for the head office. I sold 'em four more for the branches."
"Attaboy!" responded Chisholm, doing another rightabout-face. This time he set out three glasses with the bottle. "Moore & Fentress, eh? I told you they would be push-overs. Don't ever say I don't give you the breaks—that was like getting money from home."
"Uh-huh," admitted Hardy, with a reluctant grin. "Of course that sap Firrel—"
"Never mind Firrel," snapped Chisholm, "I'll handle him. The money's the thing."
"Oh, sure," said Hardy, "as soon as my check comes through—"
"Drink up," said Chisholm, waving a deprecating hand. There was no need of Maizie knowing too much—she was discreet and loyal and all that, but still—