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Updated: June 5, 2025
"How old is he, anyway?" another director asked. "Thirty-two or thereabouts, I believe. But he's had good training." "He won't do," said Mr. Whitehill, tersely. "The man for that job ought to be more seasoned at least forty. Don't you agree with me?" "I'm afraid I do," the President conceded, rather reluctantly.
"They are as desirable agents as there are up town, and they represent the Essex of England, the Austrian National, and," he glanced at his chief, "the Salamander of New York." Mr. Wintermuth found no words. "Now, Mr. Whitehill," said Smith, "they are the people we want as branch managers. Our interests would be safe in their hands.
At last, riding one day across the plain at some distance from the line of flight north from Gage, Whitehill found a fragment of a Kansas newspaper. As soon as he saw it he remembered that a certain merchant of Silver came from the Kansas town where this paper was published.
His little command rode into and through the thicket at full speed, only to find their quarry gone, gone all save one. The Mexican lay dead, shot through the head! Kit's party had dashed through the thicket without stopping, on to another, and their trail was shortly found leading up a rugged cañon of the Pinos Altos Range. Whitehill divided his party.
Wintermuth, who for some years past had given little attention to the details of the local business, knew that the firm in question was one of high standing. "Of One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street?" Smith asked. "Yes. You know them? They have an agency, then?" Mr. Whitehill responded. "They certainly have," replied the other.
Naturally the station agent had come safely out of his trance, but with that absence of memory of what had happened characteristic of the hypnotized. The trail disappeared in the sands of the Miembres road. Shrewd old Harvey Whitehill was at his wits' end. Many days passed in fruitless search.
And I think they must have an agency, because once or twice I've noticed their name signed to policies they've sent me." "Who are they?" another director asked. "Perhaps Mr. Wintermuth or Mr. Smith may know them." "Evans and Jones," replied Mr. Whitehill. The President and his young subordinate looked at one another. Even Mr.
Whether in their wildest dreams they imagined they could enter Jerusalem by this route is doubtful, but if they had succeeded in driving in our line on the north they would have put the 53rd Division in a perilous position on the east with only one avenue of escape. The Turks concentrated their efforts on Whitehill and Zamby.
Cuyler, and I all know most of these people, but a mere acquaintance is nothing to get into a first-rate office and get their best business means that you've got to have a strangle hold on the agent nothing less will do." Mr. Whitehill leaned back in his chair.
"Thirty-five is the minimum age for the President of the United States," suggested Mr. Wintermuth, detachedly. "Well, thirty-five is quite young enough," retorted Mr. Whitehill. "Give the boy a few years' time. I say, hire an underwriter outside." The President turned to face the table.
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