Tommy, of course, had thought of the selling department as he had of others. He had become acquainted with such agency inspectors as dropped in to talk to Mr. Thompson, but that branch of the business did not interest him as much as others. He knew what he ought to do, and tried to recall all the devices of salesmanship he had ever heard or read about. He was not very successful, for though his mind worked quickly, no mind can ever work efficiently on insufficient knowledge or without the purely verbal confidence that practice gives. He looked at Mr. Thompson, the man who was trying to find out what Tommy Leigh was best fitted for. That made him once more think of Tommy Leigh in terms of Tommy Leigh's needs. He must not bluff. He must not conceal anything except the secret. Mr. Thompson was a square man. He must be square with Mr. Thompson. Also Tommy Leigh must be to Mr. Thompson exactly what Tommy Leigh was to himself. Now what was Mr. Thompson to him? And, indeed, what was Mr. Thompson to Mr. Thompson? An expert, a man who knew not only motors, but men, who knew more about everything than any salesman could know. No salesman could talk to Mr. Thompson effectively. Mr. Thompson was not an average man. He knew! And the average man was a sort of Tommy Leigh--that is, he did not know much. And so, though Tommy did not know it, his secret, which by making all other concealment intolerable, compelled him to be honest, again compelled him to do the intelligent thing. It enabled him not only to see clearly, but to speak truthfully. And when Mr. Thompson repeated impatiently: “Come! Come! Sell me a car!” Tommy Leigh looked him boldly in the eye and answered confidently: “Can't!” “Why not?” “Because it is impossible.” “Why?” “You are you. You give me a problem that can't be answered except by an answer to quite a different problem. You know cars. You have cars. You make cars. You really don't want me to sell you a car. You want me to talk to a groceryman who has never spent more than seventeen cents for recreation, or to a speed maniac with ten thousand dollars a year pocket money. It wouldn't be Thompson. Nobody could sell a car to Thompson. Thompson doesn't need to be made aware that he wants to buy a car.” He was speaking from the bottom of his soul, and because he had been honest to himself and to the man who had promised to befriend him, Tommy's courage grew. It made him now look unblinkingly at the president of the Tecumseh Motor Company. He saw neither displeasure nor approval in the brown eyes. So to make sure he had made himself understood Tommy added, positively: “It isn't that I think your question is an unfair one, but that the problem isn't a problem, any more than if you ask, 'How old is a man who wears a black necktie on his way to his office?' when you really want to know if he limps.” “That's all,” said Mr. Thompson, and turned his back on Tommy.