“Well, the way I got into Morgan’s office and the way I got into yours are the same. I just talked to the fellow at the door whose business it was not to let me in. And the way I got Morgan to sign was the same way I got you to sign. You weren’t signing a contract for a set of books. You just took the fountain pen I gave you and did what I asked you to do with it. No difference. Same as you.” “And is that really Morgan’s signature?” I asked him, about three minutes late with my skepticism. “Sure! He learned how to write his name when he was a boy.” “And that’s all there is to it?” “That’s all,” he answered. “I know exactly what I am doing. That’s all the secret there is. I am much obliged to you. Good day, Mr. Livingston.” And he started to go out. “Hold on,” I said. “I’m bound to have you make an even two hundred dollars out of me.” And I handed him thirty-five dollars. He shook his head. Then: “No,” he said. “I can’t do that. But I can do this!” And he took the contract from his pocket, tore it in two and gave me the pieces. I counted two hundred dollars and held the money before him, but he again shook his head. “Isn’t that what you meant?” I said. “No.” “Then, why did you tear up the contract?” “Because you did not whine, but took it as I would have taken it myself had I been in your place.” “But I offered you the two hundred dollars of my own accord,” I said. “I know; but money isn’t everything.” Something in his voice made me say, “You’re right; it isn’t. And now what do you really want me to do for you?” “You’re quick, aren’t you?” he said. “Do you really want to do something for me?” “Yes,” I told him, “I do. But whether I will or not depends what it is you have in mind.” “Take me with you into Mr. Ed Harding’s office and tell him to let me talk to him three minutes by the clock. Then leave me alone with him.” I shook my head and said, “He is a good friend of mine.” “He’s fifty years old and a stock broker,” said the book agent. That was perfectly true, so I took him into Ed’s office. I did not hear anything more from or about that book agent. But one evening some weeks later when I was going uptown I ran across him in a Sixth Avenue L train. He raised his hat very politely and I nodded back. He came over and asked me, “How do you do, Mr. Livingston? And how is Mr. Harding?” “He’s well. Why do you ask?” I felt he was holding back a story. “I sold him two thousand dollars’ worth of books that day you took me in to see him.” “He never said a word to me about it,” I said. “No; that kind doesn’t talk about it.” “What kind doesn’t talk?” “The kind that never makes mistakes on account of its being bad business to make them. That kind always knows what he wants and nobody can tell him different. That is the kind that’s educating my children and keeps my wife in good humor. You did me a good turn, Mr. Livingston. I expected it when I gave up the two hundred dollars you were so anxious to present to me.”