ike a fool.
Before that soft, sweet voice could lead him into further masculine
folly he hung up and walked out of the booth. For the next twenty
minutes his opinion of John P. Henderson's judgment of men was rather
low. He did not feel himself to be an individual with any force of
character. In homely language he said to himself that he, Wesley
Thompson, was nothing but a pot of mush.

However, there in the offing loomed the job. He turned into the first
clothing store he found, and purchased one of those all-covering duck
garments affected by motor-car workers. By that time he had recovered
sufficiently to note that an emotional disturbance does not always
destroy a man's appetite for food.

CHAPTER XIX

A WIDENING HORIZON

This is not a history of the motor car business, nor even of the
successive steps Wes Thompson took to win competent knowledge of that
Beanstalk among modern industries. If it were there might be sound
reasons for recounting the details of his tutelage under Fred Henderson.
No man ever won success without knowing pretty well what he was about.
No one is born with a workable fund of knowledge. It must be acquired.

That, precisely, is what Thompson set out to do in the Groya shop. In
which purpose he was aided, abetted, and diligently coached by Fred
Henderson. The measure of Thompson's success in this endeavor may be
gauged by what young Henderson said casually to his father on a day some
six months later.

"Thompson soaks up mechanical theory and practice as a dry sponge soaks
up water."

"Wasted talent," John P. rumbled. "I suppose you'll have him a wild-eyed
designer before you're through."

"No," Henderson junior observed thoughtfully. "He'll never design. But
he will know design when he sees it. Thompson is learning for a definite
purpose--to sell cars--to make money. Knowing motor cars thoroughly is
incidental to his main object."

John P. cocked his ears.

"Yes," he said. "That so? Better send that young man up to me, Fred."

"I've been expecting that," young Henderson replied. "He's ripe. I wish
you hadn't put that sales bug in his ear to start with. He'd make just
the man I need for an understudy when we get that Oakland plant going."

"Tush," Henderson snorted inelegantly. "Salesmen are born, not made--the
real high-grade ones. And the factories are turning out mechanical
experts by the gross."

"I know that," his son grinned. "But I like Thompson. He gives you th