The blonde looked more surprised than anybody. Amos Weatherby had gone white as a sheet. His mouth opened but he couldn't get any words out.
"Scram!" Heck shouted. "Get out of here." The photographer vanished.
"Finch," Amos Weatherby said, mopping his brow, "you had better be able to explain this. All of it."
The blonde, after her first surprise at the photographer, seemed amused. "But does he really?" she demanded. "Do you, Heck?"
The boss-image was very strong in Heck's mind. He'd been an employee of Weatherby, Inc., ever since his two years of business college. Amos Weatherby was The Boss. You had to obey The Boss. But still, in a way, the blonde was right. Wasn't Heck going into business for himself? Hadn't the arrangements already been made by the little man with the slightly outsized head? But what about the blonde? thought Heck suddenly. How did the blonde know this?
"Well, Finch?" Weatherby asked.
And Heck heard himself saying: "This seems as good a time as any to tell you, boss. I—er—am quitting."
Weatherby looked at him for a moment, then bellowed: "Did some goldarn sales representatives from The Spooner Company offer you some kind of deal? I'll match it, Heck. Plus an additional bonus. Amos Weatherby needs salesmen like you!"
"Thank you, sir, but I'm going into business for myself."
"Yourself? With what for capital?"