It�s Sunday, and we�ve come to a place called Palermo to sell a bottling machine to a man named Halloran. The manufacturer has promised us three states if we get Halloran�s order away from the Pasteboard Products Container Company.

The cards are stacked against us, but, as Pete says, �The stuff the world hands you on a silver platter never pays off. The worth-while things, you chase out of bramble patches. Then you have to run �em down in the open.�

They say Halloran�s a tough customer, but he�s given us an appointment, so we stand a fighting chance. The bottling-machine agency is a good side line if we can get it, and Pete says we�ve got to get it, because our tire business in Robinsvale is expanding so fast we�re short of operating capital.

�I see,� I says. �We�re making money so fast we�re broke.�

Pete turns to me impatiently. �There�s a big difference between being broke and being short of operating capital.�

I shove my hand down into my pocket. �That helps.�

Pete quits trying to explain. Our appointment with Halloran is for two o�clock, and it�s only twelve-thirty now. We�re taking nourishment at a lunch counter.

I feel that somebody�s standing close to me, and turn to take a look. She�s a brunette with laughing eyes. She doesn�t see me because of the way she�s watching the bird who�s with her. He�s around fifty-five, a tall, thin guy with a stoop. Pieces of cotton are sticking out of his ears. Smile wrinkles crow�s-feet his eyes.

�We�ll get waited on quicker at the counter!� she yells.

The man�s eyes twinkle at her. I can see he hasn�t the faintest idea of what she�s saying.

She touches his sleeve, motions to the two empty stools next to us, and points to the clock. He smiles and sits down. She takes the stool next to me.

�It�s a marvelous subdivision property!� she shouts.

�How�s that?�

She puts her lips right up to his ear and yells, �I said it�s a fine subdivision property!�

�I�m not interested in subdivision property,� he says quietlike. �You�re sure there�s a lot of artesian water?�

�There�s a move on to extend the city limits!� She suddenly realizes people are staring at her and stops shouting.

The man takes a notebook from his pocket and shoves it across. �Write it down.�

I could go for this girl. There�s nothing artificial about her. She�s as natural and direct as a two-months-old puppy. She�s fumbling with her purse, so I pull out my lucky pencil. �Would you like a pencil?�

She turns and looks me over.

Pete says selling a woman is just like making any other sale. You have to look at it from the woman�s angle. Pete says the movies want you to think women sacrifice everything for love. He says what women really sacrifice everything for is style. Otherwise they wouldn�t wear those hats. He says whenever you want to pick a girl up, the thing to do is make her think the latest style is for women to be friendly with strangers. Once you�ve sold her on that idea, you�re all fixed.

Sometimes I think it�s goofy, but Pete can always make it work. So I hold out the pencil casual-like with my left hand and pick up the menu with my right, as though trying to decide on what I want for dessert. That�s another trick Pete�s taught me. Never seem too eager to make a sale. He says the secret of good salesmanship is to give the customer both barrels without letting him think you even knew your argument was loaded.

It works. She takes the pencil. �Thank you,� she says. I turn around and look at her then, smiling a little. She says, �I didn�t realize I was shouting so loud. Being in the real-estate business and trying to sell a prospect who has infected Eustachian tubes is enough to give one gray hair.�

A waitress comes. The man takes a couple of pills from his pocket, pops �em into his mouth, and says, in that quiet voice of his, �Baked-ham sandwich and a glass of milk.�

The girl opens the notebook. �Make mine the same... Now I�ll argue with him in writing,� she says to me with a smile.

Pete doesn�t intend to horn in with this girl. When I see �em first, Pete gives me a clear field. But Pete can no more keep away from a sales problem than a back-seat driver can go to sleep in traffic.

He leans across me and says, �If you�ll take a suggestion from a sales engineer, don�t argue with him at all. He has a recurved lower lip, and when he makes up his mind, it�s made.�

That�s Pete�s way. When Lady Luck is absent, A.W.O.L., Pete�s just a salesman. But when the dame is back, Pete graduates himself into a �sales engineer.� Once I asked him what was the difference, and Pete says if I don�t know, nobody else will. He says it�s something like the difference between a sales executive and a salesman. The salesman gets his orders out of customers, the executive gets �em out of envelopes.

The girl stops smiling and twists her head to look up at Pete. I guess she thinks the customers at the lunch counter are crowding in pretty fast on her party, but when she gets a look, I can see she�s going to listen � and anyone who listens to Pete is lost.

Pete says rapidly in a low voice, �Never argue with a customer. When he makes an objection, agree with him, then twist the objection into a sales argument.�

�You can�t do that,� she says. �Lots of times��

Pete�s shoulder crowds me back away from the counter. �Sure, you can, but you have to look at it from the customer�s viewpoint. That�s the first rule of salesmanship. Translate what you have to offer into terms of the customer�s needs. Now, you�re in the real-estate business. Therefore, you keep harping on values. You�re using the arguments that would appeal to you. What you want is to use the arguments that would appeal to him. He doesn�t want this as a subdivision property. That means he doesn�t want it for speculation. Therefore, he wants it for some particular purpose. Now, what is it?�

I can see her eyes widen a little. Her head is within eighteen inches of mine, but she�s forgotten I�m alive. �Why,� she says, �I don�t know.�

�How large a piece of property?�

�A hundred and eighty-five acres, a beautiful, uniform slope. It could be subdivided��

�Forget it,� Pete interrupts.

She laughs.

The man with the plugged ears looks across at Pete. He seems a little irritated because he can�t hear what they�re saying.

�Well, you know he doesn�t want subdivision property, so why not try��

The man says in that peculiar flat voice people use when they can�t hear themselves talking, �I�m afraid it�s going to be too windy in that little draw.�

�No! It won�t be windy!� she shouts.

He motions toward the notebook.

Pete says impatiently, �No, no, no! Not like that! Don�t argue with him. Turn his objections into sales arguments. Write how nice it will be to have a breeze in the summer.�

The girl pulls the notebook toward her and starts scribbling. Pete almost crowds me off the stool. �Not that way. What you�re really doing now is writing a sales letter. Use words that paint pictures. Put in about vine-covered verandas with cool breezes rustling the leaves.�

The man looks hard at Pete, but Pete doesn�t know it, he�s so interested watching what the girl�s writing.

She shoves the notebook across. The man reads what she�s written. The smile wrinkles around his eyes get deeper. He looks up over his glasses, not at her but at Pete.

The waitress comes, and they start eating.

The man says, �He�ll have to take in my apartment house at twenty-five thousand.�

She says, �He went into the city and looked it over yesterday. I think it will be all right.� She suddenly remembers he can�t hear and grabs up the pencil.

Pete coaches her in a low voice, �Not that way. Write down, �I think I can put it across for you. There were some things about that apartment house he didn�t like. But I�ll see what I can do.� Get the idea?�

�Uh-huh,� she says over her shoulder, scribbling rapidly.

While the man�s reading what she�s written, she looks up at the clock, leans across and shouts, �Mr. Halloran told us to be there at one o�clock!�

He looks up at her, and she points to the clock. He gets the idea and nods.

Pete looks at me. All at once he don�t seem so pleased with himself.

�Get that name?� I ask.

�Did I?� Pete says in a low voice. �Hold the fort while I telephone.�

He slides off the stool and goes back to the telephone booth. The girl and the man finish their sandwiches. She looks over at Pete�s vacant stool and transfers her smile to me. �When your friend comes back, please tell him how grateful I am. What does he do?�

�He�s a sales expert.�

�I know, but what does he sell?�

�Anything. We�re partners.�

�Oh,� she says. �I�m Marjorie Barker, with the Palermo Real Estate Company. I�m very grateful to you � both. Your partner is wonderful! What�s his name?�

That�s a woman for you! I say, �His name�s Pete Quint,� and wait to see if she�ll ask what my name is, but all she does is open her purse. I say, �If you�re finished with my pencil��

She flashes a smile. �Do you know, I was just ready to put it in my purse? When I�m working on a sale, I can�t think of anything else. Please thank Mr. Quint.�

They start toward the cashier�s desk. After a couple of steps, she whirls and says, �And thank you for the use of your pencil. Be sure to thank Mr. Quint for me. He�s a real sales engineer, isn�t he?�

�Yes,� I say, �he is.�

After they�ve gone, Pete comes back, shaking his head. �Nothing doing,� he says.

�You called him?�

�Uh-huh. Told him we simply had to see him before two o�clock.�

�No dice?�

�No. He said our appointment was for two, and slammed the receiver in my ear.�

�We�ll stand a fat chance� I say, �after he�s had those people talking real-estate trade for an hour.�

�His sales resistance,� Pete agrees, �will be tougher than a bride�s biscuits. He�ll have a whole flock of no�s held in escrow on the end of his tongue, ready to spill out the minute we quit talking.�

�Well,� I tell him, �we don�t have to quit talking.�

Halloran�s place is about a mile out of town. He has a waiting room and an office in the east wing. We cool our heels in the waiting room. We can hear voices from the private office. Sometimes we hear words. Four or five times I hear a voice say, �And that�s fair, or my name ain�t Jim Halloran.� It seems to be a favorite expression.

When we�ve been waiting exactly an hour and two minutes, I look across at Pete. After you�ve waited an hour, it looks as though you�re too anxious to make a sale if you keep on waiting.

Pete says, �He�s made this appointment, Ed. If we walk out, we�ll never get another. This real-estate deal��

�That ain�t the real-estate deal.�

�Sure it is. Can�t you hear him yelling?�

�He�d be yelling louder than that. You don�t hear the girl shouting. This is something else.�

Pete thinks that over. There�s a car out front. I mosey out to take a look at the registration certificate. The guy�s name is Egbert, and the car s registered in the name of the Pasteboard Products Container Company.

I go back to tell Pete it�s all over except the shouting, but just as I come in, I hear a door slam from the direction of the private office. Through the window I see a guy walking out, a chap about thirty-five, no hat, wavy black hair and a flat nose. That�ll be Egbert. The door to the reception room opens and a big man is standing on the threshold.

�Come in,� he says. There�s no apology for keeping us waiting.

Pete sizes up his man and picks the high-pressure approach. �Mr. Halloran, I�m representing the greatest and most revolutionary development in the dairy business in the past decade. Think of what it means to have��

�Don�t want it,� Halloran says. �I don�t like gadgets.�

Pete keeps right on, ��a machine which will turn out a sanitary, unbreakable, nonreturnable container, odorless, tasteless��

�Don�t want it. Anyway, I�ve decided on another bottle.�

��and imprinted with your name and advertising. Moreover, it contains our exclusive patented cream-segregating-and-draining device. Now, you know as well as��

�Ain�t interested! I�ve just agreed to take a year�s supply from��

��that in every customer family there are persons with different dietary requirements, ranging from growing children who need a large amount of butterfat, to mature adults who are watching their waistlines and interested in milk primarily as a means of getting the necessary minerals. Now, with this patented machine��

�What�s it cost?�

��we furnish you with specially cut, printed and waxed sheets of cardboard. You feed them into the machine, snap on a switch, and finished containers come tumbling into a hopper. Each one embodies our patented device by which it is possible to draw off any amount of cream��

�Let me see one of the things.�

Pete whips one out of his sample case. Halloran turns it over and over in his big fingers.

�How does this cream thing work?� he asks.

Pete shows him.

�Humph,� he says. �Done any advertising?�

�We�ve done this,� Pete says. �The factory has agreed to segregate ten per cent of its gross receipts for an advertising appropriation which��

�That ain�t any way to do with somethin� new,� Halloran interrupts. �You can t put anything across these days without advertising. It ain�t fair to ask the customer to do the advertising, and that�s what this ten per cent of sales amounts to � with a new product it is.�

Pete says, �In the larger cities that might be true. But in smaller communities where word-of-mouth��

�It�s true anywhere,� Halloran says. �You�ll find it�s true right here, or my name am t Jim Halloran.�

Pete says, �We don�t expect you to take our word for it, Mr. Halloran. The factory has given me one dozen containers which we propose to fill with your milk and place on display��

�No! I won�t pioneer the thing.�

��in one of the retail grocery stores, where it will be seen by customers who��

Halloran gets to his feet. �I�m a man of words. I ain�t going to pioneer something that ain�t advertised. That�s all. Good afternoon.�

We�re outside listening to the door slam at exactly twenty-seven minutes past three. It looks like the Dame has taken a powder.

�Our competitor,� I say to Pete, �lasted an hour and three quarters longer than we did.� And I tell him about Egbert�s machine out in front.

Pete never gives up. �There�s a nice commission in this order if we can make it, and I�ve got an idea.�

When Pete gets an idea, you never know what s going to happen, so I try to get him to tell me. Pete says there�s no use even discussing it, because it�s an absolute copper-riveted cinch.

The old gas hog takes us around to the Palermo Realty Company. Pete starts to ask for Miss Barker.

He doesn�t have to. There�s a squeal of feminine delight, and she runs up and grabs his arm. �Oh, how I want to thank you! Come on. We�ll sit out in the car. I want to tell you all about it... Oh, your partner�s there. Howdy-do?�

I grin at her, and she and Pete squeeze in next to me.

She tells us all about it, talking about three hundred words to the minute without stopping for breath. The deaf guy is named Greenwell, and Halloran is suspicious of him, can�t find out what he wants to do with the land. Then Halloran puts it up to Greenwell that he�ll take the apartment house in trade if Greenwell will take on thirty thousand dollars more property, and Greenwell consents. So Miss Barker is going to get just that much more commission. She�s so excited her hands are trembling.

When Pete can squeeze in a word he says, �I want you to do something for me. Will you?�

�Will I! I�ll do absolutely anything!�

Pete pulls out the milk bottles. �I want you to get three or four prominent women, friends of yours, who�ll do what you ask �em to. I�ll put these containers in the store where my prospect does his trading. Then you have your friends come in��

�I�ve got it,� she interrupts. �They see these new milk bottles, ask questions, listen to the answers, get enthusiastic and buy. Is that it?�

�Roughly speaking, that�s it,� Pete says, �but we embellish the scheme with a little embroidery.�

Wednesday we knock off selling tires to drive over to Palermo and plant the bottles. I�m worried.

�Snap out of it, Ed,� Pete tells me. �The Dame is with us these days. She won�t let us down.�

�Palermo�s a small place,� I tell him. �That word-of-mouth business works lots of ways. Some of those women are going to talk. Suppose our competitor��

�Bosh,� Pete says. �Of course, Ed, I don�t agree with the merchandising policy of the factory. Halloran is right. But as far as that competitive salesman is concerned, there�s nothing he could do even if he did find out.�

Marjorie Barker has everything all fixed. Pete goes into the market where Halloran does his trading, and demonstrates the bottle. The manager gets interested, and in no time at all he�s agreed to let Pete put half a dozen bottles in the icebox, and watch customer reactions.

I�m standing on the sidewalk. Miss Barker is parked at the curb. When I see Pete walk over to the icebox, I take out my handkerchief. That�s her go-ahead sign. She nods and drives away.

Personally, I think they pull it too crude and too fast, but the manager doesn�t see anything wrong. Half a dozen women come drifting into the store, pick up baskets, and buy a few odds and ends. Then they see the new milk containers. There�s some printing on them about the new cream selector and pourer, and the women ask the manager how it works. They start gushing enthusiasm, and I can see the manager is impressed in a big way. Then the bombshell hits us.

She�s a woman with a gracious manner of big-city sophistication. She�s dolled up in a fur coat that cost real jack, and she�s carrying a sore-eyed pooch under her arm. A chauffeur�s trailing along behind as they sweep past me. That chauffeur looks familiar. He has a flat nose and � he�s Egbert!

I push into the store after �em. The woman walks up to ask for a certain brand of dog food. While she�s taking out her purse, she looks over at the milk bottles very casually.

�Oh,� she says, �do you handle those!�

I feel my stomach getting cold at the tone of her voice.

The clerk smiles. �Oh, yes. They��

�And you haven�t had any trouble with them?�

�Why, no.�

Her face shows well-bred surprise. �You haven�t had complaints about the spout coming loose in automobiles and spilling cream all over the cushions?�

�Why... why, no.�

She says, �Well, I hope they�ve at least changed the injurious chemicals they were using. The grocers in the city won�t handle them.�

Pete takes two quick steps, his eyes glittering. �I beg your pardon!�

She freezes him with a haughty glare. �Sir!�

Pete says, �Madam, I happen to be representing��

The dog barks and shows his teeth.

�James,� she says.

The chauffeur acts as though it had all been rehearsed like interference in a football game. He gets his shoulder between Pete and the woman. Pete tries to push him aside.

I can see from the way the guy pivots that he�s good. His left flashes out just hard enough to hold Pete�s chin where he wants it, and then his right comes across like a freight car making a flying switch.

Pete upsets a case of canned goods as he goes down. The woman�s chin is up as she walks out. James holds the door open.

I let �em get well out on the sidewalk, then close in, and say, �All right, James, that�s the preliminary. We�ll now have the main event.�

He takes a look at me. I�m bigger than Pete. He hesitates.

The woman says, �No brawling, James.�

I smile at him. �He does look a lot like the dog, doesn�t he? Any relation?�

I block the left he throws, and step inside of his right to land a hard one in the ribs.

He grunts and leaves me a perfect opening for his jaw. I start crossing my right�

It feels as though someone�s taking a flashlight photograph of the inside of my skull. When the birdies quit singing, I�m sitting up on the sidewalk watching two streets spreading out in front of me, with two cars driving away, and in the back of each car is a little sore-eyed dog barking his head off.

But it was as though the jolt had jarred an idea from in the back of my mind out to where it really belongs. I scramble up and go dashing in to get Pete.

Pete is still pretty groggy. He�s trying to tell the manager it�s the cheap trick of an unscrupulous competitor, but he isn�t making it stick.

I give him the high sign.

�A.W.O.L.,� Pete says, and I know he�s talking about Lady Luck.

I drag him off to one side. �Remember the deaf guy, Pete?�

�What about him?�

�He didn�t want it for subdivision property, and he asked about the water. It�s a gradual slope. Halloran was suspicious of what he wanted it for. Get it?�

Pete�s left eye is closed. He blinks the right. �Huh?�

�Alfalfa!� I tell him. �And what do they do with alfalfa? They feed it to cows. No wonder Halloran wouldn�t trade until Greenwell bought thirty thousand dollars more property. What has Halloran to sell that�s worth thirty grand?�

Pete gets it. He makes a bow to the empty space on his right. �I beg your pardon, Lady Luck,� he says.

We find the Palermo Realty Company knee-deep in grief. Miss Barker�s so blue she hardly notices Pete�s swollen eye.

�Guess what,� she says. �My deal�s off.�

�What happened? Did your man hack out?�

She smiles wanly. �I guess your advice was all wasted.�

�What happened?�

�A big oil company is putting down a wildcat.�

�Oh, I read about that,� Pete says. �Don�t let it worry you. Those wildcat wells don�t mean a thing. They�re��

�Phooey,� she interrupts. �Be your age. Me with a deal on for a hundred and eighty-five acres, the papers not signed, and Jim Halloran making the deal.�

Pete sees a great light. �Oh-oh,� he says.

�Why, Mr. Quint, whatever happened to your eye?�

Pete says, �The word-of-mouth advertising got me.�

�What do you mean?�

�Somehow or other, our scheme leaked out. One of my competitors didn�t want to lose Halloran�s order.�

�Well, can you feature that?� She turns to me. �Why didn�t you protect him, Mr. Felton?�

I�d taken mine on the chin where it didn�t show. There�s no use telling her about it.

�Did you say Halloran was selling the dairy?� I ask.

�Why, yes. It turned out that�s what Mr. Greenwell wanted the land for. He was going to open another dairy. Halloran found out about it. He said he�d sell his whole business, lock, stock and barrel, and they reached a complete agreement Sunday. Halloran�s been out of town Monday and yesterday. He was to come in today to sign up.�

�Wasn�t it a trade?� Pete asks the girl.

She says, �Just his word, and his word isn�t worth�� She snaps her fingers.

The door opens and Greenwell comes in.

�Hello!� I yell at him, and you can hear me for a block.

He holds up his hands. �It was only temporary,� he says. �The doctor�s taken out the packing. I can hear all right now.� He looks over at Pete�s eye.

�He ran into a door,� I explain.

�Oh,� Greenwell says, and shakes hands. �I got a kick out of you boys, but don�t think I didn�t know what you were doing. Your name�s Quint, isn�t it?�

Pete nods and introduces me.

�I like good salesmanship,� Greenwell says, �and I know it when I see it. What are you handling? A bottling machine?�

Pete makes a dive into his sample case. He shows Greenwell some of the circular stuff, and is off like a hound on a hot scent.

I say to Miss Barker, �How about going over to that ice-cream parlor, dropping a nickel in the music machine, and trying to shake off the blues?�

She tries a smile. �I�d be poor company. That sale meant too much. You see, dad�s been injured and��

�Chin up,� I tell her, taking her arm. �After all, losing an order now and then is all in the day�s work. It hurts, but if you keep pushing doorbells you always make up for it.�

She looks over at Pete, but Pete doesn�t even see her. He�s talking a blue streak to Green-well, tapping his sample milk bottle with his finger. That�s Pete all over. Greenwell isn�t a customer, now that the deal for Halloran�s dairy is off, but he�s interested, and that�s all Pete asks for.

Miss Barker and I go over to the ice-cream parlor. She�s blue as a July ocean, and all the time I�m dancing I keep cudgeling my brain, saying to myself, Think up something, Ed. If you could work out some scheme to gire her another chance at that commission, you�d be the fair-haired boy child. There must be something. And then the idea hits me like a ton of brick.

�What is it?� Miss Barker asks as I miss a couple of steps.

I don�t even take time to explain. I just grab her arm and drag her out of the door. Behind us the dance machine finishes the rest of the music.

Greenwell and Pete are sitting there with their heads together. Greenwell is nodding slowly as Pete drives home some point. When Pete starts selling, he forgets everything else.

I say, �Mr. Greenwell, you dealt with Mr. Halloran personally, didn�t you?�

He looks at me for a moment as though he doesn�t have any idea of what I�m talking about. Then he nods.

�And Sunday you were deaf?�

�As a post,� he says, and smiles.

�You got that notebook in your pocket?�

He looks at me as though wondering what all the excitement is about. Then Pete lets out a war whoop.

It takes Miss Barker a minute to catch on. Then she says, �Oh, I see. But it wouldn�t work. It�d have to be signed.�

This is my chance to let her see that Pete Quint ain�t the only pebble on the beach when it comes to brains. I clear my throat and wait about five seconds. Pete says that when a man has an important announcement to make, he should make it sound important.

When they�re all looking at me, I say in a low, distinct voice, �You remember that habit of his of saying �or my name ain�t Jim Halloran�?�

Greenwell has the book out, thumbing through the leaves.

Pete, looking over his shoulder, says excitedly, �Here it is,� and pushes his finger down on the page. He reads, �I�ll give you twenty-five thousand for the apartment, but you�ll have to take the land and my whole dairy business at the figures I quoted. I�ll hold that offer open five days � and that�s fair, or my name ain�t Jim Halloran.�

I say to the girl, �Come on,� and as Pete gets the gas hog started, he asks, �Where�s your lawyer, Marjorie?� It�s just like Pete, calling her by her first name, as though he�d known her all his life.

And she says, just as naturally, �Just across from the post office, Pete. His name�s Anderson, of Anderson and Gilmore.�

We make time to the lawyer�s office. Anderson looks the notebook over. Then he slowly nods.

Pete sees that nod and whirls to Greenwell. �I presume you�ll want our bottling machines in your new dairy, Mr. Greenwell?�

And Greenwell grins. �You probably don�t know it, young man, but I�m already in the dairy business. This is only one branch I was going to take over. I own the controlling interest in sixteen successful dairies.�

The lawyer looks up. �We can hold him on this.�

�How long will it take and how much will it cost?� Greenwell asks.

�Not very much and not very long. Halloran is too tight to spend money on lawsuits, and the oil companies wouldn�t touch his property if it was tied up in litigation. You let me talk with Jim Halloran, and I think you�ll have his signature on an agreement within an hour. Whoever thought of this has brains.�

He reaches for the telephone, and I look across at the girl and adjust my tie.

Her eyes are on Pete. �Pete,� she says, �you�re marvelous! Whatever would I have done if it hadn�t been for you?�

Greenwell turns to me, smiles, starts to say something, then changes his mind.

�I didn�t do much,� Pete says. �It was Ed who��

And Marjorie � Miss Barker to me � says. �You don�t have to belittle yourself to me, Pete.�

Then she throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him. That�s a woman for you!