“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 really ought to be.  And I developed pneumonia with influenza and they found some T.B. indications after that.  I’ve been at the government tuberculosis hospital at Fort Bayard, New Mexico, for a year.  However, what’s left of me is certified to be sound.  I’ve got five inches chest expansion and I feel fine.”

“Not at all blue or discouraged?” Cappy hazarded.

“Oh, I got off easy, Mr. Ricks.  I have my head left—­and my right arm.  I can think and I can write, and even if one of my wheels is flat, I can hike longer and faster after an order than most.  Got a job for me, Mr. Ricks?”

“No, I haven’t, Mr. Peck.  I’m out of it, you know.  Retired ten years ago.  This office is merely a headquarters for social frivolity—­a place to get my mail and mill over the gossip of the street.  Our Mr. Skinner is the chap you should see.”

“I have seen Mr. Skinner, sir,” the erstwhile warrior replied, “but he wasn’t very sympathetic.  I think he jumped to the conclusion that I was attempting to trade him my empty sleeve.  He informed me that there wasn’t sufficient business to keep his present staff of salesmen busy, so then I told him I’d take anything, from stenographer up.  I’m the champion one-handed typist of the United States Army.  I can tally lumber and bill it.  I can keep books and answer the telephone.”