members of the board, I have to go around pretending I don’t know who it will be. That, too, is part of our tradition.
“Sixteen years ago I was elected to the board. Twelve years ago I was made recording secretary in spite of everything I did to wiggle out of it. Eight years ago I was made treasurer. Four years ago I became vice president. Two years ago, at the convention in Atlanta, I made my speech of acceptance as president, and that night I told my wife Connie that finally I could relax and start taking the bows for all the work the other fellows were going to do.
“I suppose that right here is the place where I should point with pride. I don’t know. I’ve never had much trust in long lists of accomplishments. Oh, sure, we’ve got such a list. But to me, NAPATAN has been the way we can stand face to face … without agitating the anti-trust boys. And it has been these inter-company contacts which, over the twenty-four years since NAPATAN was founded, that have turned this industry from a cut-throat jungle into … into a respectable place to spend your life.
“Now don’t get the idea everybody has given up sharp-shooting, and this has turned into a great big Bible school. Every company in this industry is still rough and tough and eager, because they have to be to survive. But NAPATAN has at least given us an arena where the rules are posted and nobody hits you after the bell.
“I don’t know just how to say what I want to say to you people. To me … and I guess you know I’m a sentimental man … the breath of life itself is the strong, warm, honest contact between human beings.”
He was silent for many seconds, and when he spoke again his voice was husky and uncertain. “Even if NAPATAN had failed at all the ambitious things it tried to do, I would still treasure my long association with it. Because … through this organization … I have been privileged to become a friend of … of some of the finest men our society has ever produced.”
The applause was long and loud. People here and there began to stand, applauding, and soon the multitude was on its feet. Floyd had the uneasy feeling that perhaps too many people had underestimated Jesse Mulaney.
As the applause began to die he heard a man at the table directly behind him. “Dix Weaver’s speech. The same old crap, and it always works.”
The man’s neighbor said, “It was sixteen years he did nothing. Not two. You should hear Harry Mallory on that subject, Ed.”
“How can a guy like Mulaney fake his way so far for so long? I heard that with the new team at AGM, they’re finally catching up to that …”
“Ssshh!”
“Huh? Why’re you … Oh.”
Hubbard, as everyone began to sit down again, looked sidelong at Connie, hoping she hadn’t overheard. But he knew at once that she had. She was staring down at the table, her lips compressed, her face pink, a tear in the corner of her eye.
“That was just what they wanted to hear, Connie,” he said.
She looked at him and knuckled the tear away. She looked angry. “Certainly. That’s Jesse’s special talent, you know. Telling everybody exactly what they want to hear. That’s the secret of salesmanship.”
He made a forlorn attempt to turn it into a joke. “Not only salesmanship. Love and politics.”
She seemed to study him. “It’s a lot tougher, I imagine, to tell people the things they don’t want to hear. But some people enjoy it. A certain special type of person.”
“Connie, I … I don’t think we ought to …”
She touched his hand. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
The toastmaster made some closing announcements and adjourned the banquet meeting. Dave Daniels had returned for the speeches, but he left the moment it was over. It was ten thirty.
After the slow herd movement into the lobby, Floyd found himself with Cass and Sue Beatty. “What happens now?” he asked.
“Suite-hopping,” Cass said. “A test of endurance. Everybody visits
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