The Go-Getter | Page 3

that Shanghai job?"

"I think he'll do."
"Why do you think he'll do?"
"Because he ought to do. He's been with us long enough to have acquired sufficient
experience to enable him--"
"Has he acquired the courage to tackle the job, Matt?" Cappy interrupted. "That's more
important than this doggoned experience you and Skinner prate so much about."
"I know nothing of his courage. I assume that he has force and initiative. I know he has a
pleasing personality."
"Well, before we send him out we ought to know whether or no he has force and
initiative."
"Then," quoth Matt Peasley, rising, "I wash my hands of the job of selecting Henderson's
successor. You've butted in, so I suggest you name the lucky man."
"Yes, indeed," Skinner agreed. "I'm sure it's quite beyond my poor abilities to uncover
Andrews' force and initiative on such notice. He does possess sufficient force and
initiative for his present job, but--"
"But will he possess force and initiative when he has to make a quick decision six
thousand miles from expert advice, and stand or fall by that decision? That's what we
want to know, Skinner."
"I suggest, sir," Mr. Skinner replied with chill politeness, "that you conduct the
examination."
"I accept the nomination, Skinner. By the Holy Pink-toed Prophet! The next man we send
out to that Shanghai office is going to be a go-getter. We've had three managers go rotten
on us and that's three too many."
And without further ado, Cappy swung his aged legs up on to his desk and slid down in
his swivel chair until he rested on his spine. His head sank on his breast and he closed his
eyes.
"He's framing the examination for Andrews," Matt Peasley whispered, as he and Skinner
made their exits.
* * * * *
II
The President emeritus of the Ricks' interests was not destined to uninterrupted cogitation,
however. Within ten minutes his private exchange operator called him to the telephone.
"What is it?" Cappy yelled into the transmitter.

"There is a young man in the general office. His name is Mr. William E. Peck and he
desires to see you personally."
Cappy sighed. "Very well," he replied. "Have him shown in."
Almost immediately the office boy ushered Mr. Peck into Cappy's presence. The moment
he was fairly inside the door the visitor halted, came easily and naturally to "attention"
and bowed respectfully, while the cool glance of his keen blue eyes held steadily the
autocrat of the Blue Star Navigation Company.
"Mr. Ricks, Peck is my name, sir--William E. Peck. Thank you, sir, for acceding to my
request for an interview."
"Ahem! Hum-m-m!" Cappy looked belligerent. "Sit down, Mr. Peck."
Mr. Peck sat down, but as he crossed to the chair beside Cappy's desk, the old gentleman
noticed that his visitor walked with a slight limp, and that his left forearm had been
amputated half way to the elbow. To the observant Cappy, the American Legion button in
Mr. Peck's lapel told the story.
"Well, Mr. Peck," he queried gently, "what can I do for you?"
"I've called for my job," the veteran replied briefly.
"By the Holy Pink-toed Prophet!" Cappy ejaculated, "you say that like a man who doesn't
expect to be refused."
"Quite right, sir. I do not anticipate a refusal."
"Why?"
Mr. William E. Peck's engaging but somewhat plain features rippled into the most
compelling smile Cappy Ricks had ever seen. "I am a salesman, Mr. Ricks," he replied. "I
know that statement to be true because I have demonstrated, over a period of five years,
that I can sell my share of anything that has a hockable value. I have always found,
however, that before proceeding to sell goods I had to sell the manufacturer of those
goods something, to-wit--myself! I am about to sell myself to you."
"Son," said Cappy smilingly, "you win. You've sold me already. When did they sell you a
membership in the military forces of the United States of America?"
"On the morning of April 7th, 1917, sir."
"That clinches our sale. I soldiered with the Knights of Columbus at Camp Keamy myself,
but when they refused to let me go abroad with my division my heart was broken, so I
went over the hill."
That little touch of the language of the line appeared to warm Mr. Peck's heart

considerably, establishing at once a free masonry between them.
"I was with the Portland Lumber Company, selling lumber in the Middle West before the
war," he explained. "Uncle Sam gave me my sheepskin at Letter-man General Hospital
last week, with half disability on my ten thousand dollars' worth of government insurance.
Whittling my wing was a mere trifle, but my broken leg was a long time mending, and
now it's shorter than it