“Grierson,” said Jim, “you know the personnel of the woodenware business better than I. Here’s what I want you to do: Land the best woodenware broker in Buffalo to handle our line for the city and western New York. Get him! Give him seven and a half commission, if necessary. Have him sign a contract like Levine’s in Cleveland. Then hit for New York. There’ll be soreness somewhere over this Winkleman business. It must have cut into somebody’s territory. You know who to go to. We want the biggest—somebody with a sales organization. Offer them all New York and all New England outside of Boston. If they hang out for Boston, give it to them, too. If they don’t insist on it go to Boston and repeat the dose. I want somebody who will sell our goods—and keep us hustling to fill orders. We’ll put a dent in Plum and Mannikin. Now you’ll want to bury your young man in directions for his guidance while you’re gone. Get at it. And don’t come back here unless you’ve got what I want.” Grierson was blinking. “Your father was a swift mover when he was r’iled,” said he; “but for suddenness, and for landing a hard punch, I guess you are a little ahead of him. I’ll do my best, Mr. Ashe.” Jim’s next move was a wire to Philadelphia. Pennsylvania was the home ground of the Jenkins mills, and Jim was determined to hit as many heads as he could. Any woodenware man worthy of the name was familiar with the house of Sands & Stein, of the Quaker City. Jim’s wire said: If interested handing our whole line Pennsylvania exclusive territory wire. These things accomplished, Jim entered upon the routine of his work, which occupied him until six o’clock was near. Just as he was leaving the office a telegram arrived from Silvers. “I’m no quitter,” it said, tersely, and Jim knew that he had found at least one dependable man. As Jim approached he saw a man seated on the Widow Stickney’s porch. He wondered if the widow was entering on a campaign to conquer her “third,” and had invited him to supper as an opening gun. Jim was not familiar enough with Diversity’s citizens yet to identify an individual by his legs, and this one’s face was concealed by the climbing vine. If Jim had been a native of the village he would have experienced no such difficulty, for Diversity’s male inhabitants were as easy to distinguish by their pants as by their faces. We recognize a man by his face because that is the face he has always worn. The same rule held true of Diversity’s trousers. Old Clem Beagle still went to church in the garments that covered him when he was married sixty years before. When Jim climbed the porch he was convinced that the widow had nothing whatever to do with the visitor. It was Michael Moran, and Jim wondered just who in that house was responsible for his presence.