12 Sports Aces, May 1943 — page 29: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MILES FOR SALE Her eyes were half closed as she glided with him; her lips were parted. She liked to dance and was not going to talk. Time was passing. In a moment he’d lose her. He said, “You live up this way?” “T live in Norristown, Pennsylvania.” He eracked a broad smile. “Main and DeKalb?” he asked. “Or Swede and Airy?” She smiled in surprise and the soft eurve of full lips hung him right up to dry. He rushed to explain, “I make your town every month. I’m a liquor sales man.’’ “Make it?” “It’s in my territory,” he said. “Look, we have things in common, don’t we?” He shot an apprehensive glance around for the halfback. “Let’s go some place for a while and...” Her eyes dropped. “I’m with some- body. I’m sorry.” In a way, he was glad. He said simply, “Miss Peg Starrett. And if a guy was passing through and wanted to phone, it would be Norristown—?” 0817.” He called her up on his next trip through. They took in a Bob Taylor show and spent an hour or two in a local hot spot. And so it began. There was no telling how it would end. They’d been engaged six months now, but no date set. He had to be more sure of his job, he told her. She looked surprised. ‘““But you’ve had it for years. What more do you want?” “I want everything,” Larry § said, “when you’re in it. Right now things are too uncertain.” “That’s true in any business,” she said. ““‘Well—maybe.” He let it drop. In @ way it was shame that kept him from explaining things further. He’d been with the liquor concern since graduation—just clerking at first—until they shifted him onto the sales force. “I’m no salesman,” he told them. “I don’t like people. I’d rather stay in the office.” And old man Warriner said, ‘““You don’t have to like people. Not with your repue tation.” There # was. They were buying his name. Larry Hanlon, former world’s champion. Picture runner. He eame to hate that tag. But the money was good. He kept ramme ning because if he didn’t, the fans would forget, and that would raise hob with the juicy commissions. He was up a blind alley of course. The end of running would also end his eareer. The worst part was that after the first two years he’d begun to like it. He began to sell cold to people who didn’t know him or what his name stood for. He made a study of selling. he could get in solid before he hung up his spikes, they’d have to keep him. And then he and Peg... There wasn’t much time. Cunningham reached his peak about twenty-eight be- fore the inevitable anticlimax. Larry wae twenty-seven. NE day he went in and said to the boss, “I can only run a couple more years. The way I see it... .” | “Nonsense,” Warriner elucked. “Ne telling how long you’ hang on if you stay in training.” “T don’t want to hang on. I’m sick of training. I’m twenty-seven years old. It’s time I gave up this kid stuff.” “You’re stale, Hanlon. Go home and get a good night’s rest. You’ll feel differ- ently in the morning.” Larry wouldn’t feel differently in the morning, or any other morning. “If you’li listen to what I’m trying to say,” he said, *“T won’t take up any more of your time.” Warriner looked stolidly at him. “Jus€ what is your trouble?” “I want to know where I stand. ’m learning this business. A man has to fa | four years on the road unless he’s hope- less. Look at my record.” “You’re getting some nice orders late- ly, Hanlon.” “Enough?” Warriner coughed. “I don’t get you.” “Enough te hold this job if I decide te quit running?” He watched the old man’s face grow stubborn. “Frankly, Hanlon, the answer is no.” “But I am improvimg 7?” “Of course.” comicbook (EO)