More Deadly Than The Male

George flushed with pleasure to be called one of Robinson's best salesmen, but when he met Brant's eyes he experienced a strange uneasiness. There was something disconcerting about Brant's blank face, the indifferent way he stood, as if he didn't give a damn for anyone. The raw, puckered wound upset George, who had a slightly squeamish stomach in spite of his fascination for violence and bloodshed.

"How do you do?" he said, looking away. "Robo was just saying he wanted me to show you the ropes. I'll certainly do my best."

Brant stared at him indifferently and said nothing. "You'll find old George knows all the tricks," Robinson said breezily.

Why couldn't the fellow say something? George thought. He glanced down at his tankard, swished the beer round in it and looked up abruptly at Brant.

"Robo says he wants you and me to work together," he said. "We—we might do some work this afternoon."

Brant nodded. His eyes shifted to Robinson and then back to George. He still appeared to find the situation called for no comment.

Robinson was not at his ease. He picked his nose and smiled absently at himself in the big mirror behind the bar.

"You couldn't do better than work with George," he said, addressing himself in the mirror. "You'll be surprised when you see old George in action." He patted George's arm. "We'll make a big success out of young Syd, won't we?"

"Don't call me Syd," the young man said in a low, clipped voice. "My name's Brant."

Robinson flashed his toothy smile, but his eyes looked startled. "Must be matey," he said, looking into the mirror again. He adjusted his frayed tie. "Can't do business if we aren't matey, can we, George? You call me Robo, I'll call you Syd—right?"

"My name's Brant," the young man repeated and stared through Robinson with bored, cold indifference.

There was an awkward pause, then George said, "Well, have a drink. What'll it be?"

Brant shrugged his thin shoulders. "I don't drink," he returned. "Still, I don't mind a lemonade," and his eyes went to Gladys, who came along the bar at George's signal.

George, seeing her give a quick, alarmed look at Brant, realized that this was the fellow she had been telling him about. Well, she was right. He could understand now what she meant when she had said that he'd given her the creeps. George scratched his head uneasily. He was reluctant to admit it, but the fellow gave him the creeps too.

"A lemonade for Mr Brant," he said, winking at Gladys.

Gladys poured out the lemonade, set it before Brant and, without a word, walked away to the far end of the bar.

Again there was an awkward pause, then Robinson finished his beer, wiped his thick lips on his coat sleeve and slid off the stool.

"Well, I'm off," he announced. "I've got several little jobs to do. I'll leave you in George's capable hands. Don't forget, boys, every door is a door of opportunity. The right mental attitude gets the business. If you haven't the right MA, you can't hope to conquer the other man's mind. You want your prospect to buy the Child's SelfEducator. He doesn't want to have anything to do with it because he doesn't know anything about it. It's your job to convince him that the CSE is the best investment he can buy. Get your prospect agreeing with you from the very start of your sales talk. Get inside the house. Never attempt to sell a prospect on his doorstep. Know when to stop talking and when to produce the order form." He beamed at George and went on, "George knows all about it. Follow those rules and you can't go wrong. Good luck and good hunting." His toothy smile faltered a trifle as he felt Brant's sneering eyes searching his face. With a wave of his hand, Robinson pushed his way through the crowd and out into the street.

George stared after him, an admiring look in his eyes. "He knows the business all right," he said enthusiastically. "Believe me, he's one of the best salesmen I've ever met."

Brant sipped his lemonade and grimaced. "You can't have met many," he said, staring past George at the group of men at the end of the bar.

George started. "What do you mean? Why, Robo knows every trick in this game better than any salesman working for the Wide World."

Brant's expressionless eyes shifted from the group of men to George's flushed face.

"He's living on a bunch of suckers who're fools enough to let him get away with it," he said in flat, cold tones, like a judge pronouncing sentence.

George's sense of fair play was outraged. "But its business. He trains us, so naturally we pay him a small commission. We couldn't sell anything unless he tells us where to go and how to get our contacts. Be fair, old man."

The white, thin face jeered at him "What do you call a small commission?"

"He told you, didn't he?"

"I know what he told me, but what did he tell you?" Brant jerked a long lock of hair out of his eyes.