.

Yes ... a really fast worker--some unethical promoter willing to stoop
to devious methods--might pass at any moment and grasp the
possibilities, have Miss Francis signed up before I'd even got the deal
straight in my mind. How could he miss, seeing this lawn? Splendid,
magnificent, beautiful. No one would ever call this stuff
devilgrass--angelgrass would be more appropriate to the implications of
such a heavenly green. Millions in it--simply millions....

"Say--arent you the fellow put this stuff on?"

Halfadozen vacant faces gaped at me, the burdening pump, the caudal
hose. Curiosity, interest, imbecile amusement argued in their expression
with the respect due the worker of the transformation; it was the sort
of look connected with salesresistance of the most obstinate kind. They
distracted me from thinking things through.

"Miz Dinkman's sure looking for you. Says she's going to sue you."

Here was an unfortunate development, an angle to end all angles.
Unfavorable publicity, the abortifacient of new enterprises, would mean
you could hardly give the stuff away. My imagination raced through
columns of newsprint in which the Metamorphizer was made the butt of
reporters' humor. Mrs Dinkman's ire would have to be placated, bought
off. Perhaps I'd better discuss developments with Miss Francis right
away, afterall.

Whatever I decided, it was advisable for me to leave this vicinity. I
was in no financial position to soothe Mrs Dinkman and it was dubious,
in view of her attitude, whether it would be possible to sell any more
in the immediate neighborhood. Probably a new territory was the answer
to my problem; a few sales would give me both cash in hand and time to
think.

While I hesitated, Mrs Dinkman, belligerency dancing like a sparkling
aura about her, came out of her garage with a rusty, rattling lawnmower.
I'm no authority on gardentools, but this creaking, rickety machine was
clearly no match for the lusty growth. The audience felt so too, and
there was a stir of sporting interest as they settled down to watch the
contest.

Determination was implicit in the sharply unnatural lines of her corset
and the firm set of her glasses as she charged into the gently swaying
runners. The wheels turned rebelliously, the mower bit, its rusty blades
grated against the knife, something clanked forcibly and the machine
stopped. Mrs. Dinkman pushed, her back arched with effort--the mower
didnt budge. She pulled it back. I