“Not a thing.  My theory of business is that a man should either be fired or promoted.  If I get that job I’ll leave it to you to do what’s right.  I won’t ask any questions.”

“The whole thing is utterly absurd,” Mitchell’s employer protested.  “You haven’t a chance!  But—­Wait!” He pressed a button on his desk.  “We’ll talk with Mathison.”

Louis Mitchell took the night train for Pittsburgh.  He was back in three days, and that afternoon Mr. Comer, in the privacy of his own office, dictated a letter of which no carbon copy was preserved.  He gave it to the young man with his own hand, and with these words:  “You’d better think it over carefully, my boy.  It’s the most idiotic thing I ever heard of, and there isn’t one chance in a million.  It won’t do you any good to fail, even on a forlorn hope like this.”

But Mitchell smiled.  “I can’t fail—­I’m married.”  Then when the other seemed unimpressed by this method of reasoning, he explained:  “I guess you never saw my wife.  She says I can do it.”

It was only to this lady herself that Mitchell recited the details of his reception at Pittsburgh, and of the battle he had fought in the Carnegie office.  The Carnegie men had refused to take him seriously, had laughed at him as at a mild-mannered lunatic.

“But I got my price,” he concluded, triumphantly, “and it sure looks good to me.  Now for the painful details and the sad good-bys.”

“How long will you be gone?” his wife inquired.

“I can’t stay more than a month, the bank-roll is too small.”

“Oo-oo-h!  A month!  London is a long way off.”  Mrs. Mitchell’s voice broke plaintively and her husband’s misgivings at once took fire.

“If I fail, as they all feel sure I will, what then?” he inquired.  “I’ll be out of a job!  I’ll be a joke in the steel business; I’ll be broke.  What will you do?”

She gave him a ravishing, dimpled smile, and her eyes were brave once more.  “Why, I haven’t forgotten my shorthand, and there are always the department stores.”  In a high, querulous tone she cried “Ca—­a—­sh!” then laughed aloud at his expression.  “Oh, it wouldn’t hurt me any.  But—­you won’t fail—­you can’t!  We’re going to be rich.  Now, we’ll divide our grand fortune.”  She produced a roll of currency from her purse and took four twenty-dollar bills from it.

“Only eighty dollars?” he queried.

“It’s more than enough for me.  You’ll be back in a month.”  She thrust the remaining notes into his hand.  “It’s our one great, glorious chance, dear.  Don’t you understand?”

Faith, hope and enthusiasm, the three graces of salesmanship, thrive best in bright places.  Had it not been for his wife’s cheer during those final hours young Mitchell surely would have weakened before it came time to leave on the following day.  It was a far cry to London, and he realized ’way back in his head that there wasn’t one chance in a million of success.  He began to doubt, to waver,