"Fair enough!" I tells him, "but you're goin' at the thing backwards. How are you gonna take an order for autos when you ain't got no autos to sell? I suppose you figure on grabbin' the ten thousand dollar job first and then makin' good with a loud crash by landin' the big order, eh?" He shakes his head and sighs pityin'ly. "Would there be anything new and original about that?" he asks. "No!" I says, "there wouldn't! But I don't see how you're gonna win out any other way." "Of course you don't!" he sneers. "You're a New Yorker, ain't you? I'm supposed to be the rube, simply because I wasn't born on Sixth Avenue. Now I already told you my methods was new, didn't I? Anybody would work the thing the way you lay it out--and probably land neither the job nor the order. What a chance would I have goin' up there and askin' for that job first? Where would I come out against all them sellin' experts with letters and so forth to prove it? Why, they'd laugh me outa the office! _B-u-t!--if I go to them with an order for fifty or sixty of their cars as actual proof that I can sell not only autos, but their autos_, what will they say, then? D'ye see the point now? They ask me for a reference and I reach in my pocket and give them the order, _which I've got before applyin' for the job_, to prove to myself and them that I can sell automobiles!" Oh, boy! "Alex," I says, when I got my breath, "I gotta hand it to you! When it comes to inventin' things, you got Edison lookin' like a backward pupil. Go to it, old kid! If you put this over the way you have just told it to me, you'll own Broadway in a week!" "I'm figurin' on ten days!" he says. We arrive at the Mastadon Department Store and shoot up in the elevator to the office of G. C. Munson, the general manager. Alex has been readin' the notes he made on Gaflooey delivery wagons like the same was a French novel, and, by the time we got there, he could repeat their advertisement by heart. He starts to breeze right into the office and some dame appears on the scene and nails him. "One moment, please!" she says, very cold--givin' Alex a look that took in everything from his hick clothes to his rube haircut. "This happens to be a private office. Whom did you desire to see?" "If I thought they was anybody prettier than you here, I'd ask to have them brought out," says Alex, in that simple rube way of his which give no offense, "but of course I know that's impossible. Still, as long as I'm here, I'd like to see Mister Munson." The dame melts and releases a smile. "What did you wish to see him about?" she asks. "About ten minutes," pipes Alex. "D'ye know there's somethin' about them navy blue eyes of yours that makes me think of my mother--isn't that funny?" The dame surrenders and shows Alex all her nice front teeth. "I'll see if Mister Munson is in," she says, handin' him a card, "but you'll have to fill this out." Alex looks at the card which had this on it,