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By the time he took over RFC, Jones had so perfected this technique of delegation that he had only to expand his horizons to include the nation. If he wants Mr. Fuddyduddy removed from a directorate — bank, railroad or whatever — he has only to drop a light hint. Jones-trained employes are skilled hint-interpreters; the men he puts in office are expert hint-takers. For such reasons, underneath the success-story fragrance that surrounds the saga of Jesse Jones, there is still a whiff of old rancors, the skeletons of unforgiven deals, the shadows of shadowy doings. But in Houston, men say: "Well, we'd rather have Houston the way it is today, with all of Jesse's sharp goings-on, than no Jesse and no Houston." Jesse Jones operates now in a higher, brighter sphere. Power is his passion, but now he is equally passionate over the benevolent use of that power. If he drives a hard bargain, as he did last week over Chicago & Eastern Illinois Railway Co., it's in the interest of the Government—which is supposedly all the people. He is tough, shrewd, tricky as ever. And the list of Jones-directors, Jones-managers, Jones-chairmen, Jones-presidents grows & grows. All this he is forgiven, because the men he picks make good, i.e., make profits. He tests every problem with his same old rabbit's foot touchstone; the million questions he has faced are always the same question: Is it a good risk? In all the U. S. today there is only one man whose power is greater: Franklin Roosevelt. The President can force Jones to resign at any moment. But many men say that public opinion would never let the President jettison Jesse, that Sinbad Roosevelt is fated always to carry Old-Man-of-the-Sea-Jones.
Man for Man. Jesse Jones js huge—6 ft. 3 in. high, with great pale hands, small, blue-greenish eyes that are all green when he is ready to say "No," and a thick thatch of white hair still sprinkled with iron-color. His face can be kind, as he can be; but most times it is the kind of face a man gets who asks himself one practical question through all the hours of his life —a rigid, stern, rocklike face. Sometimes he looks like the Ten Commandments.
He seems diffident. His only sign of taut nerves is the tearing up of paper into innumerable little bits. He plays superb poker and bridge, evaluating his cards, his opponents' faces, the stakes, in lightning decision, without seeming to watch.
He stopped smoking years ago—it wasn't worth the risk. When he stopped, he stopped. For a time he kept an open tin of cigarets on his desk, never touched them.
Now he cannot abide smoke near him.
"No Smoking" signs plaster all the offices near his.