"Look, Bud, here’s a box of cold cream—nearly full. You can get a quarter for it from somewhere along the line," suggested John, nodding toward the row of dressing rooms as he walked away, his overcoat over his shoulder, a suitcase in his hand. *CHAPTER XVI* *THE KING STILL LIVES* To make money quickly and steadily and in considerable amounts, was his immediate necessity. He remembered, naturally, that only seven months ago William N. Scofield had offered him a salary of twelve thousand dollars a year, and he went to see that gentleman promptly. But while the Traffic Manager’s eye lighted at sight of him, the light faded. Scofield did not refer to the offer he had made or the things he had talked about that night in the Pacific Union Club. He only said absently: "I will speak to Parsons." The next day Parsons offered Hampstead a position in the rate department at one hundred dollars per month. John was not greatly surprised. He knew the world was like that. Of course, he might have gone next to Mr. Mitchell, but did not. In the first place John knew that no position which that kind-hearted gentleman might offer could pay as much money as he must have. In the second place, he felt himself big with a sense of new-grown powers, of personality that he wanted to capitalize, not for some employer, but for himself. "Seems to me," he communed, as he walked down Market Street, "that I could sell real estate, or stocks, or bonds; that I could promote enterprises, work with big men, put through their deals, and make a lot of money. I believe I will try it." An advertisement which seemed to promise something like this was answered by him in person, but it proved instead a proposition to sell books. John revolted at the idea, but the books interested him greatly. The set was designed for self-improvement, and the price was thirty dollars. "Every time you sell a young man or woman a set of these, you do them good," he suggested to the manager, with a glow upon his face. "Exactly," assented that suave gentleman, sighting two prime essentials of a salesman, faith in his article and a missionary enthusiasm. "You could make a hundred a week selling ’em!" One hundred dollars a week! John looked his incredulity. "What were you doing before?" inquired the manager. "Acting!" "Selling books is like acting," mused the manager. "If you are a good actor, you could make a hundred a week easy."