JAMES J. DUNLAP: EX-INDUSTRIALIST
As I turned off Main Street in Lawrenceville, which is one of Western North Carolina's mountain resort towns, I found myself in what, apparently, was real estate row. Five or six out of the dozen offices in the block had shingles hung out announcing the nature of the business conducted on the inside. The street fronting the offices was teaming with people: but nobody seemed to have business with the real estate agents. Cars pulled up. Passengers got out. But they locked their car doors and joined the stream of people moving toward Main Street or crossed the street and disappeared inside the post office. I gazed through the window of one particularly gloomy-looking office and wondered how the agents fared. Then, after a moment of hesitation, I felt the urge to step inside and find out.
On entering, I found the office contained several desks and several men, none of the latter of whom paid me the least attention. One who shamelessly sleeping, his feet propped, crossed, on the desk in front of him. Another sat reading a newspaper; and yet another sat pecking away at a typewriter placed on a desk near the entrance. Because of his proximity, I approached this man first.
He was a broad, powerful-appearing hulk of a man; and, even though he was seated behind a desk, there was not so