Towards the end, Randy was firing questions at him.
"Could I own a car while I was selling them?"
"Sure—they'd let you have it on installments to be paid for out of your commissions——"
"And I'd have an open field?"
"My dear boy, in a month you could have cars like this running up and down the hills like ants after sugar. They speak for themselves, and they are cheap enough for anybody."
"But it is a horse-riding country, especially back in the hills. They love horse-flesh, you know."
"Oh, they'll get the gasoline bug like the rest of us," said the genial gentleman and slapped him on the back.
Randy winced. He did not like to be slapped on the back. Not at a moment—when he was selling his soul to the devil——
For that was the way he looked at it.