Sincerely, Willis Wayde by John P. Marquand Page A

there,” and then he laughed. “I wished several times that I could be up there with you. Come here and kiss me, Bess. You’re getting big enough to kiss.”
    â€œOh, Grandfather, don’t be silly,” Bess said, and she giggled.
    â€œIt was quite a show, wasn’t it?” Mr. Harcourt said. “I used to watch it from here myself. In those days they had stovepipe hats and Prince Alberts. Now if I were you two, I’d sneak down to the kitchen and tell Mary to give you some food. If she’s cross, tell her it’s my orders, Bess.”
    â€œOh, Grandfather,” Bess said, “you’re awfully sweet.”
    â€œSweet as sugar,” Mr. Harcourt said. “Well, Willis.”
    Mr. Harcourt’s lower lip was motionless.
    â€œYes, sir?” Willis said.
    â€œWell, you’ve seen the family,” Mr. Harcourt said. “It may help you when you come to work for me next Monday. I’m putting you under old Bill Jackson in Building 1. Beginning Monday you and I will both be working for those people.”
    He laughed and walked away.
    â€œGosh,” Bess said, “I thought that he’d be angry.”
    Willis had half forgotten Bess, in his realization that he was no longer a stranger but a retainer of the great house. Mr. Harcourt had as good as told him so. He would have followed Mr. Harcourt anywhere, or died for him.

V
    In later years, like any other successful man at the head of a growing organization, Willis was naturally sympathetic with people having problems similar to his, and he could hardly help but make all sorts of interesting contacts at conventions and business luncheons, which he cultivated as assiduously as a farmer cultivated his crop, with Christmas cards and notes at suitable intervals. If you had a good secretary, she would tell you, for instance, that it was about time to write to Mr. Charles Bottomly, the president of the Plywood and Binder Company in Wilmington, California.
    â€œDear Chuck,” you would write. “How’s it on the Coast? Long time no see. Huey Jenks from the Guaranty was around here yesterday, and he says the job you’re doing out there is terrific. Are you coming East to the NAM?
    â€œPlease find enclosed a little verse about Truman and the music critic that’s going the rounds here, in case you haven’t seen it yet. Well, long time no see, but give my regards to Clara and the kids, in which Mrs. Wayde joins me, even if she hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting them. Sincerely, as always.”
    You never could tell when a little bread cast upon the waters might pay off. It never hurt to have too many friends doing the same sort of thing you were. Willis had told many of them a lot about himself over drinks in hotel suites, in corners of clubs and on golf courses, and a lot of them had told Willis a lot about themselves in return—of what they thought about so-and-so, about their yachts, about their hobbies, and their tastes in women and liquor and automobiles. This sort of thing was the currency of business friendship.
    There was one thing Willis always noticed about all these friends. When they touched on their own careers and their own adventures in free enterprise, they usually began to deal in vague generalities. It was not that these people had anything to conceal. It was only that the average business life—one’s hours and years in plants and offices and conference rooms—was too personal to be explained fully. None of these events were dull to one who lived them but none had much value for anyone else. At least Willis knew that this was true with him.
    He was almost seventeen the first summer he worked at the Harcourt Mill, and his days behind the fence had nothing much to do with his leisure time. He was only tired at night and very hungry. He was there to learn and he had learned better than the average. He worked with some others of his schoolmates that summer as a