"Why?"
"Wasn't earning check-room costs on my hat."
"Why weren't you?"
Gregg shook his head; no more with Billy than with Mrs. Russell would he take refuge in generalities on business conditions.
"You know perfectly well why they let you out!" Billy charged him, becoming interested. "You're not a salesman; you never have been; you're just a good-looking, pleasant person, Gregg; that's your advantage and your curse. I've always told you that. Now maybe you'll believe me and get to work."
"Where?"
"What did you say?"
"Where'll I get to work?"
"Why? Can't you get a job now? What's happened to your friend Hartford and the others who were so crazy to get you a couple of months ago?
"A couple of months ago, everybody seemed to think that all that was needed to buck up business again and put it at its peak was a cheerful disposition," Gregg said feelingly. "I had that; I still have—most of it; but—well, Hartford's not putting his carburetor on the market at all this year. Banks won't back him; and even he admits it's a rotten time. Everybody all of a sudden started telling me it's a rotten time—to put me on the payroll, at any rate. And since last week Thursday I've seen 'em all—everybody who's ever bunked himself that he wanted me to work for him. I'd have mentioned it to you before, but I knew you're never very interested in partial returns; but every precinct's heard from now, Bill; and it's a landslide."
"Because every one that knows you," said Billy
