person. He said, "Say, this is--"

H. R. did not allow the full expression of individual opinion--a form of
salutary discipline which explains why people are governed. He snarled
in a tone of voice that made his shoulders look a yard wide: "Mr. Book
Agent, I've picked the men I want. What I don't want is to hear any
remarks. Talk them into a dictagraph and send the cylinders by parcels
post to my secretary."

He had risen. But when he finished speaking, as though the unarmed
proletariat were in full retreat, he sat down again. It was the way he
did it.

Men always do what they are expected to do. The eight non-successfuls
went out. It was only when they were outside, where the female was
typewriting away, that they began to talk loudly.

H. R. had judged rightly. They were not first-class men. He turned to
the others and asked:

"Can you _sell_ advertising?"

Young Mr. Barrett came forward. The four answered, "Yes!"

"Then you can sell anything!"

He stood up suddenly, when they were not expecting such a thing. This is
always subtly disconcerting. Business men and beautiful women invariably
resent it.

He asked, sharply, "What is the one thing none of you can sell to me?"

He looked challengingly at the first. The man stared back at H. R. and,
with the canvasser's professional look of congratulation, replied, "A
gold brick!"

"Good answer! Not _the_ answer. And you?" he asked the second man.

"Newspaper space--not to you."

"Still better answer. But not the answer."

He looked at the third man, who promptly said: "Opinions!"

"Excellent. But not the answer. And you, young man?"

The accusation of youth is never successfully repulsed. Young Mr.
Barrett, ingeniously admitting his youth to remove the sting from his
humor, replied triumphantly, "Smallpox!"

"The tendency of American youth is toward the clown. It keeps us in an
attitude of perennial apology toward the perennial juvenility of our
nation. What none of you can sell me is--"

He paused. They were looking at him with the intentness with which all
men look at an armed lunatic--or at their master.

After the second minute of suspense they exclaimed in chorus:

"What?"

They couldn't help it!

"Cold feet!" said H. R. calmly.

They looked relieved. Then they looked anxious. The reason the ruled
masses never win is because they inflict upon themselves their own
doubts.

"How many times your own salary do you wish to earn for me?" asked