"Any man," said the genial gentleman, rubbing a cloth over the enamel of the little car, "any man who would start selling this machine down here would make a fortune." Randy pricked up his ears. "How could he make a fortune?" "Selling cars. Why, the babies cry for them----" he chuckled and rubbed harder. "How much could he make?" Randy found himself saying. The genial gentleman named a sum, "Easy." Randy got up from the wheelbarrow and came over. "Is she really as good as that?" "Is she really? Oh, say----" the genial gentleman for the next ten minutes dealt in superlatives. Towards the end, Randy was firing questions at him. "Could I own a car while I was selling them?" "Sure--they'd let you have it on installments to be paid for out of your commissions----" "And I'd have an open field?" "My dear boy, in a month you could have cars like this running up and down the hills like ants after sugar. They speak for themselves, and they are cheap enough for anybody." "But it is a horse-riding country, especially back in the hills. They love horse-flesh, you know." "Oh, they'll get the gasoline bug like the rest of us," said the genial gentleman and slapped him on the back. Randy winced. He did not like to be slapped on the back. Not at a moment--when he was selling his soul to the devil---- For that was the way he looked at it. "I shall have to perjure myself," he said to Major Prime later, as they talked it over in the Schoolhouse, "to go through the country telling mine own people to sell their horses and get cars." "If you don't do it, somebody else will." "But a man can't be convincing if he doesn't believe in a thing." "No, of course. But you've got to look at it this way, the world moves, and horses haven't had an easy time. Perhaps it is their moment of emancipation. And just for the sake of a sentiment, a tradition, you can't afford to hold back." "I can't afford to lose this chance if there is money in it. But it isn't what I had planned." As he sat there on the step and hugged his knees, every drop of blood in Randy seemed to be urging "Hurry, hurry." He felt as a man might who, running a race, finds another rider neck and neck and strains towards the finish. To sell cars in order to win Becky seemed absurd on the face of it. But he would at least be doing something towards solving the problem of self-support, and towards increasing the measure of his own self-respect. "What had you planned?" the Major was asking. "Well of course there is the law---- And I like it, but there would be a year or two before I could earn a living---- And I've wanted to write----" "Write what? Books?" "Anything," said Randy, explosively, "that would make the world sit up." "Ever tried it?" "Yes. At school. I talked to a teacher of mine once about it. He said I had better invent a--pill----" The Major stared, "A pill?"