CHAPTER XXII. MESSRS. FLINT AND PUSHER.
Now that he was again in his native village, Walter realized how unpleasant had been his position at Mr. Drummond's from the new elasticity and cheerfulness which he felt. There had been something gloomy and oppressive in the atmosphere of his temporary home at Stapleton, and he certainly had very little enjoyment in Joshua's society. Mrs. Drummond was the only one for whom he felt the least regard.
He passed a few days quietly, renewing old acquaintances and friendships. Nancy Forbes had gone to live with a brother, who was an old bachelor, and very glad to have her with him. Her savings and the legacy left her by Mr. Conrad together amounted to a thousand dollars, or rather more,—sufficient to make Nancy rich, in her own opinion. But she was not quite satisfied about the legacy.
"They say, Walter, that you'll be left poor," she said. "You'll need this money."
"No, I shan't, Nancy," answered Walter. "Besides, there's a lot of mining stock that'll come to something,—I don't know how much."
"But I don't feel right about taking this money, Walter."
"You needn't feel any scruples, Nancy. I can take care of myself. I can paddle my own canoe."
"But you haven't got any canoe," said Nancy, who did not comprehend the allusion. "Besides, I don't see how that would help you to a living."
Walter laughed.
"I shall get a canoe, then," he said, "and I'll steer it on to Fortune."
"At any rate," said Nancy, "I will leave you my money when I die."
"Who knows but you'll marry and have a lot of children?"
"That isn't very likely, Walter, and me forty-seven a'ready. I'm most an old woman."
So the conversation ended. Nancy agreed, though reluctantly, to take the legacy, resolved some time or other to leave it to Walter. If she had known how little he really had left, she would not have consented to accept it at all.
The same evening Walter sat in the lawyer's comfortable sitting-room, and together they discussed the future.
"So you want to be a book agent, Walter?" said Mr. Shaw. "I can't say I think very highly of this plan."
"Why not, Mr. Shaw?"
"It will lead to nothing."
"I don't mean to spend my life at it. I am more ambitious than that. But it will give me a chance to travel without expense, and I always wanted to see something of the world."
"How old are you now?"
"Fifteen."
"You are well-grown of your age. You might readily be taken for sixteen."
"Do you really think so?" asked Walter, gratified, like most boys of his age, at being thought to look older than he really was.
"Yes; at sixteen I was smaller than you now are."
"You see, Mr. Shaw, that, as I am so young, even if I spend a year at this business, I shall not be too old to undertake something else afterwards. In the mean time I shall see something of the world."
"Well, Walter, I won't oppose you. If I had not so much confidence in you, I should warn you of the temptations that are likely to beset your youth, left, as you will be, entirely to yourself. Of course you will be thrown among all kinds of associates."
"Yes, sir; but I think I shall be wise enough to avoid what will do me no good."
"So I hope and believe. Now, what is the name of this publisher you were speaking of?"
"Pusher. He's of the firm of Flint & Pusher."
"I have heard of them. They are an enterprising firm."
"I think I had better start pretty soon, Mr. Shaw. I shall enjoy myself better when I am at work."
"Next Monday, then, if you desire it."
It was then Friday.
On Monday morning Mr. Shaw handed Walter a pocket-book containing a roll of bills. "You will need some money to defray your expenses," he said, "until you are able to earn something. You will find fifty dollars in this pocket-book. There is no occasion to thank me, for I have only advanced it from money realized from your father's estate. If you need any more, you can write me, and I can send you a check or money-order."
"This will be quite enough, Mr. Shaw," said Walter, confidently. "It won't be long before I shall be paying my way; at least I hope so. I don't mean to be idle."
"I am sure you won't be, or you will belie your reputation. Well, good-by, Walter. Write me soon and often. You know I look upon myself as in some sort your guardian."
"I will certainly write you, Mr. Shaw. By the way, I never thought to ask you about the furniture of my room at the Essex Classical Institute."
"It was purchased by the keeper of the boarding-house; at a sacrifice, it is true, but I thought it best to let it go, to save trouble."
"I should like to see Lem," thought Walter, with a little sigh as he called to mind the pleasant hours he had passed with his school-fellow. "I'll go back and pay the old institute a visit some time, after I've got back from my travels."
Walter reached New York by ten o'clock. Though his acquaintance with the city streets was very limited, as he had seldom visited it, he found his way without much trouble to the place of business of Messrs. Flint & Pusher. As they did not undertake to do a retail business, but worked entirely through agents, their rooms were not on the first floor, but on the third. Opening the door of the room, to which he was guided by a directory in the entry beneath, Walter found himself in a large apartment, the floor of which was heaped up with piles of books, chiefly octavos. An elderly gentleman, with a partially bald head, and wearing spectacles, was talking with two men, probably agents.
"Well, young man," said he, in rather a sharp voice, "what can I do for you?"
"Is Mr. Pusher in?" asked Walter.
"He went out for a few minutes; will be back directly. Did you wish particularly to see him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take a seat, then, and wait till he comes in."
Walter sat down and listened to the conversation.
"You met with fair success, then?" inquired Mr. Flint.
"Yes, the book takes well. I sold ten in one day, and six and eight in other days."
Walter pricked up his ears. He wondered whether the book was the one recommended to him. If so, a sale of ten copies would enable the agent to realize twelve dollars and a half, which was certainly doing very well.
Just as the agents were going out, Mr. Pusher bustled in. His sharp eyes fell upon Walter, whom he immediately recognized.
"Ha, my young friend, so you have found us out," he said, offering his hand.
"Yes, sir."
"Come to talk on business, I hope?"
"Yes, sir, that is my object in coming."
"Mr. Flint," said Mr. Pusher, "this is a young friend whose acquaintance I made a short time since. I told him, if ever he wanted employment, to come here, and we would give him something to do."
Mr. Flint, who was a slower and a more cautious man than Mr. Pusher, regarded Walter a little doubtfully.
"Do you mean as an agent?" he said.
"Certainly I do."
"He seems very young."
"That's true, but age isn't always an advantage. He looks smart, and I'll guarantee that he is all he looks. I claim to be something of a judge of human nature too."
"No doubt you're right," said Mr. Flint, who was accustomed to defer considerably to his more impetuous partner. "What's the young man's name?"
"You've got me there," said Mr. Pusher, laughing. "If I ever knew, which is doubtful, I've forgotten."
"My name is Walter Conrad," said our hero.
"Very good. Well, Conrad," continued Mr. Pusher, in an off-hand manner, "what are your wishes? What book do you want to take hold of?"
"You mentioned a book the other day,—'Scenes in Bible Lands.'"
"Yes, our new book. That would be as good as any to begin on. How's the territory, Mr. Flint?"
Mr. Flint referred to a book.
"Most of the territory near by is taken up," he said. "Does Mr. Conrad wish to operate near home?"
"I would rather go to a distance," said Walter.
"As far as Ohio?"
"Yes."
"In that case you could map out your own route pretty much. We haven't got the West portioned out as we have the Middle and New England States."
"In other words, we can give you a kind of roving commission, Conrad," put in Mr. Pusher.
"That would suit me, sir," said Walter.
"Still it would be best not to attempt to cover too much territory. A rolling stone gathers no moss, you know. There is one important question I must ask you to begin with. Have you got any money?"
"Yes, sir, I have fifty dollars."
"Good. Of course you will need money to get out to your field of labor, and will have to pay your expenses till you begin to earn something. Fifty dollars will answer very well."
"As I don't know very well how the business is managed," said Walter, "I must ask for instructions."
"Of course. You're a green hand. Sit down here, and I'll make it all plain to you."
So Mr. Pusher, in his brief, incisive way, explained to Walter how he must manage. His instructions were readily comprehended, and Walter, as he listened, felt eager to enter upon the adventurous career which he had chosen.
CHAPTER XXIII. WALTER LOSES HIS MONEY.
Walter, by advice of Mr. Pusher, bought a ticket to Cleveland. There was a resident agent in this city, and a depository of books published by the firm. As Walter would be unable to carry with him as large a supply of books as he needed, he was authorized to send to the Cleveland agency when he got out, and the books would be sent him by express.
"I will give you a letter to Mr. Greene, our agent in Cleveland," said Mr. Pusher, "and you can consult him as to your best field of operations."
The letter was hastily written and handed to Walter.
"Good-by, Mr. Pusher," he said, preparing to leave the office.
"Good-by, my young friend. I shall hope to hear good accounts from you."
So Walter went downstairs, and emerged into the street. He had no particular motive for remaining in New York, and felt eager to commence work. So he went at once to the Erie railway depot, and bought a through ticket to Cleveland, via Buffalo and Niagara Falls. Though he had not much money to spare, he determined not to neglect the opportunity he would have of seeing this great natural wonder, but to stop over a day in order to visit the falls.
He selected a comfortable seat by a window, and waited till the train was ready to start. He realized that he had engaged in rather a large enterprise for a boy of fifteen, who had hitherto had all his wants supplied by others. He was about to go a thousand miles from home, to earn his own living,—in other words, to paddle his own canoe. But he did not feel in the least dismayed. He was ambitious and enterprising, and confident that he could earn his living as well as other boys of his age. He had never been far from home, but felt that he should enjoy visiting new and unfamiliar scenes. So he felt decidedly cheerful and hopeful as the cars whirled him out of the depot, and he commenced his Western journey.
Walter put his strip of railway tickets into his vest-pocket, and his porte-monnaie, containing the balance of his money, into the pocket of his pantaloons. He wished to have the tickets at hand when the conductor came round. He sat alone at first, but after a while a lady got in who rode thirty miles or more, and then got out. A little later a young man passed through the cars, looking about him on either side. He paused at Walter's seat, and inquired, "Is this seat taken?"
"No, sir," said Walter.
"Then, with your permission, I will take it," said the stranger. "Tiresome work travelling, isn't it?"
"I don't know," said Walter. "I rather like it; but then I never travelled much."
"I have to travel a good deal on business," said the other, "and I've got tired of it. How many times do you think I have been over this road?"
"Couldn't guess."
"This is the fifteenth time. I know it like a book. How far are you going?"
"To Cleveland."
"Got relations there, I suppose?"
"No," said Walter; "I am going on business."
He was rather glad to let his companion know that he, too, was in business.
"You're young to be in business," said his companion. "What sort of business is it?"
"I am an agent for Flint & Pusher, a New York firm."
"Publishers, aint they?"
"Yes, sir."
Walter's companion was a young man of twenty-five, or possibly a year or two older. He was rather flashily attired, with a cut-away coat and a low-cut vest, double-breasted, across which glittered a massive chain, which might have been gold, or might only have been gilt, since all that glitters is not gold. At any rate, it answered the purpose of making a show. His cravat was showy, and his whole appearance indicated absence of good taste. A cautious employer would scarcely have selected him from a crowd of applicants for a confidential position. Walter was vaguely conscious of this. Still he had seen but little of the world, and felt incompetent to judge others.
"Are you going right through to Cleveland?" inquired the stranger.
"No; I think I shall stop at Buffalo. I want to see Niagara Falls."
"That's right. Better see them. They're stunning."
"I suppose you have been there?" said Walter, with some curiosity.
"Oh, yes, several times. I've a great mind to go again and show you round, but I don't know if I can spare so long a time from business."
"I should like your company," said Walter, politely; "but I don't want to interfere with your engagements."
"I'll think of it, and see how I can arrange matters," said the other.
Walter was not particularly anxious for the continued society of his present companion. He was willing enough to talk with him, but there was something in his appearance and manner which prevented his being attracted to him. He turned away and began to view the scenery through which they were passing. The stranger took out a newspaper, and appeared to be reading attentively. Half an hour passed thus without a word being spoken on either side. At length his companion folded up the paper.
"Do you smoke?" he asked.
"No," said Walter.
"I think I'll go into the smoking-car, and smoke a cigar. I should like to offer you one if you will take one."
"No, thank you," said Walter; "I don't smoke, and I am afraid my first cigar wouldn't give me much pleasure."
"I'll be back in a few minutes. Perhaps you'd like to look over this paper while I am gone."
"Thank you," said Walter.
He took the paper,—an illustrated weekly,—and looked over the pictures with considerable interest. He had just commenced reading a story when a boy passed through the car with a basket of oranges and apples depending from his arm.
"Oranges—apples!" he called out, looking to the right and left in quest of customers.
The day was warm, and through the open window dust had blown into the car. Walter's throat felt parched, and the oranges looked tempting.
"How much are your oranges?" he inquired.
"Five cents apiece, or three for a dime," answered the boy.
"I'll take three," said Walter, reflecting that he could easily dispose of two himself, and considering that it would only be polite to offer one to his companion, whose paper he was reading, when he should return.
"Here are three nice ones," said the boy, picking them out, and placing them in our hero's hands.
Walter felt in his vest-pocket, thinking he had a little change there. He proved to be mistaken. There was nothing in that pocket except his railway tickets.
Next, of course, he felt for his porte-monnaie, but he felt for it in vain.
He started in surprise.
"I thought my pocket-book was in that pocket," he reflected. "Can it be in the other?"
He felt in the other pocket, but search here was equally fruitless. He next felt nervously in the pocket of his coat, though he was sure he couldn't have put his porte-monnaie there. Then it flashed upon him, with a feeling of dismay, that he had lost his pocket-book and all his remaining money. How or where, he could not possibly imagine, for the suddenness of the discovery quite bewildered him.
"I won't take the oranges," he said to the boy. "I can't find my money."
The boy, who had made sure of a sale, took back the fruit reluctantly, and passed on, crying out, "Here's your oranges and apples!"
Walter set about thinking what had become of his money. The more he thought, the more certain he felt that he had put his porte-monnaie in the pocket in which he had first felt for it. Why was it not there now? That was a question which he felt utterly incompetent to answer.
"Have you lost anything?" inquired a gentleman who sat just behind Walter. Looking back, he found that it was a gentleman of fifty who addressed him.
"Yes, sir," he said, "I have lost my pocket-book."
"Was there much money in it?"
"About forty dollars, sir."
"That is too much to lose. Was your ticket in it also?"
"No, sir; that I have in my vest-pocket."
"Where was your pocket-book when you last saw it?" inquired the gentleman.
"In this pocket, sir."
"Humph!" commented the other. "Who was that young man who was sitting with you a few minutes since?"
"I don't know, sir."
"He was a stranger, then?"
"Yes, sir; I never met him till this morning."
"Then I think I can tell you where your money has gone."
"Where, sir?" demanded Walter, beginning to understand him.
"I think your late companion was a pickpocket, and relieved you of it, while he pretended to be reading. I didn't like his appearance much."
"I don't see how he could have done it without my feeling his hand in my pocket."
"They understand their business, and can easily relieve one of his purse undetected. I once had my watch stolen without being conscious of it. Your porte-monnaie was in the pocket towards the man, and you were looking from the window. It was a very simple thing to relieve you of it."
CHAPTER XXIV. SLIPPERY DICK.
It is not natural for a boy of Walter's age to distrust those with whom he becomes acquainted even slightly. This lesson unfortunately is learned later in life. But the words of his fellow-traveller inspired him with conviction. He could think of no other way of accounting for his loss.
He rose from his seat.
"Where are you going?" asked the old gentleman.
"I am going to look for the thief."
"Do you expect to find him?"
"He said he was going into the smoking-car."
"My young friend, I strongly suspect that this was only to blind you. The cars have stopped at two stations since he left his seat, and if he took your money he has doubtless effected his escape."
Walter was rather taken aback by this consideration. It seemed reasonable enough, and, if true, he didn't see how he was going to get back his money.
"I dare say you are right," he said; "but I will go into the smoking-car and see."
"Come back again, and let me know whether you find him."
"Yes, sir."
Walter went through two cars, looking about him on either side, thinking it possible that the thief might have taken his seat in one of them. There was very little chance of this, however. Next he passed into the smoking-car, where, to his joy no less than his surprise, he found the man of whom he was in search playing cards with three other passengers.
He looked up carelessly as Walter approached, but did not betray the slightest confusion or sign of guilt. To let the reader into a secret, he had actually taken Walter's pocket-book, but was too cunning to keep it about him. He had taken out the money, and thrown the porte-monnaie itself from the car platform, taking an opportunity when he thought himself unobserved. As the money consisted of bills, which could not be identified as Walter's, he felt that he was in no danger of detection. He thought that he could afford to be indifferent.
"Did you get tired of waiting?" he asked, addressing our hero.
"That's pretty cool if he took the money," thought Walter.
"May I speak to you a moment?" asked Walter.
"Certainly."
"I mean alone."
"If you'll wait till I have finished the game," said the pickpocket, assuming a look of surprise. "Something private, eh?"
"Yes," said Walter, gravely.
He stood by impatiently while the game went on. He was anxious to find out as soon as possible what had become of his money, and what was the chance of recovering it.
At length the game was finished, and a new one was about to be commenced, when Walter tapped his late companion on the shoulder.
"Oh, you wanted to speak to me, did you?" he said indifferently. "Can't you wait till we have finished this game?"
"No," said Walter, resolutely, "I can't wait. It is a matter of great importance."
"Then, gentlemen, I must beg to be excused for five minutes," said the pickpocket, shrugging his shoulders, as if to express good-natured annoyance. "Now, my young friend, I am at your service."
Walter proceeded to the other end of the car, which chanced to be unoccupied. Now that the moment had come, he hardly knew how to introduce the subject. Suppose that the person he addressed were innocent, it would be rather an awkward matter to charge him with the theft.
"Did you see anything of my pocket-book?" he said, at length.
"Your pocket-book?" returned the pickpocket, arching his brows. "Why, have you lost it?"
"Yes."
"When did you discover its loss?"
"Shortly after you left me," said Walter, significantly.
"Indeed! was there much money in it?"
"Over thirty dollars."
"That is quite a loss. I hope you have some more with you."
"No, it is all I have."
"I'm very sorry indeed. I did not see it. Have you searched on the floor?"
"Yes; but it isn't there."
"That's awkward. Was your ticket in the pocket-book?"
"No, I had that in my vest-pocket."
"That's fortunate. On my honor, I'm sorry for you. I haven't much money with me, but I'll lend you a dollar or two with the greatest of pleasure."
This offer quite bewildered Walter. He felt confident that the other had stolen his money, and now here he was offering to lend him some of it. He did not care to make such a compromise, or to be bought off so cheap; so, though quite penniless, he determined to reject the offer.
"I won't borrow," he said, coldly. "I was hoping you had seen my money."
"Sorry I didn't. Better let me lend you some."
"I would rather not borrow."
Walter could not for the life of him add "Thank you," feeling no gratitude to the man who he felt well assured had robbed him.
The pickpocket turned and went back to his game, and Walter slowly left the car. He had intended to ask him point-blank whether he had taken the money, but couldn't summon the necessary courage. He went back to his old seat.
"Well," said the old gentleman who sat behind him, "I suppose you did not find your man?"
"Yes, I did."
"You didn't get your money?" he added, in surprise.
"No, he said he had not seen it."
"Did you tax him with taking it?"
"No, I hardly ventured to do that."
"Did he show any confusion?"
"No, sir, he was perfectly cool. Still, I think he took it. He offered to lend me a dollar or two."
"That was cool, certainly."
"What would you advise me to do?" asked Walter.
"I hardly know what to advise," said the other, thoughtfully.
"I don't want him to make off with my money."
"Of course not. That would be far from agreeable."
"If he could only be searched, I might find the pocket-book on him."
"In order to do that, he must be charged with the robbery."
"That is true. It will be rather awkward for a boy like me to do that."
"I'll tell you what you had better do, my young friend. Speak to the conductor."
"I think I will," said Walter.
Just at that moment the conductor entered the car. As he came up the aisle Walter stopped him, and explained his loss, and the suspicions he had formed.
"You say the man is in the smoking-car?" said the conductor, who had listened attentively.
"Yes."
"Could you point him out?"
"Yes."
"I am glad of it. I have received warning by telegraph that one of the New York swell-mob is on the train, probably intent on mischief, but no description came with it, and I had no clue to the person. I have no doubt that the man you speak of is the party. If so, he is familiarly known as 'Slippery Dick.'"
"Do you think you can get back my money?" asked Walter, anxiously.
"I think there is a chance of it. Come with me and point out your man."
Walter gladly accompanied the conductor to the smoking-car. His old acquaintance was busily engaged as before in a game, and laughing heartily at some favorable turn.
"There he is," said Walter, indicating him with his finger.
The conductor walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder.
"What's wanted?" he asked, looking up. "You've looked at my ticket."
"I wish to speak to you a moment."
He rose without making any opposition, and walked to the other end of the car.
"Well," he said, and there was a slight nervousness in his tone, "what's the matter? Wasn't my ticket all right?"
"No trouble about that. The thing is, will you restore this boy's pocket-book?"
"Sir," said the pickpocket, blustering, "do you mean to insult me? What have I to do with his pocket-book?"
"You sat beside him, and he missed it directly after you left him."
"What is that to me? You may search me if you like. You will find only one pocket-book upon me, and that is my own."
"I am aware of that," said the conductor, coolly. "I saw you take the money out and throw it from the car platform."
The pickpocket turned pale.
"You are mistaken in the person," he said.
"No, I am not. I advise you to restore the money forthwith."
Without a word the thief, finding himself cornered, took from his pocket a roll of bills, which he handed to Walter.
"Is that right?" asked the conductor.
"Yes," said our hero, after counting his money.
"So far, so good. And now, Slippery Dick," he continued, turning to the thief, "I advise you to leave the cars at the next station, or I will have you arrested. Take your choice."
The detected rogue was not long in making his choice. Already the cars had slackened their speed, and a short distance ahead appeared a small station. The place seemed to be one of very little importance. One man, however, appeared to have business there. Walter saw his quondam acquaintance jump on the platform, and congratulated himself that his only loss was a porte-monnaie whose value did not exceed one dollar.
I will only add that the conductor on seeing the pocket-book thrown away had thought nothing of it, supposing it to be an old one, but as soon as he heard of the robbery suspected at once the thief and his motive.
CHAPTER XXV. A HARD CUSTOMER.
Walter stopped long enough at Buffalo to visit Niagara Falls, as he had intended. Though he enjoyed the visit, and found the famous cataract fully up to his expectations, no incident occurred during the visit which deserves to be chronicled here. He resumed his journey, and arrived in due time at Cleveland.
He had no difficulty in finding the office of Mr. Greene, the agent of Messrs. Flint & Pusher. He found that this gentleman, besides his agency, had a book and stationery business of his own.
"I don't go out myself," he said to Walter; "but I keep a supply of Flint's books on hand, and forward them to his agents as called for. Have you done much in the business?"
"No, sir, I am only a beginner. I have done nothing yet."
"I thought not. You look too young."
"Mr. Pusher told me I had better be guided by your advice."
"I'll advise you as well as I can. First, I suppose you want to know where to go."
"Yes, sir."
"You had better go fifty miles off at least. The immediate neighborhood has been pretty well canvassed. There's C—— now, a flourishing and wealthy town. Suppose you go there first."
"Very well, sir."
"It's on the line of railway. Two hours will carry you there."
"I'll go, this afternoon."
"You are prompt."
"I want to get to work as soon as possible."
"I commend your resolution. It speaks well for your success."
Walter arrived in C—— in time for supper. He went to a small public house, where he found that he could board for a dollar and a half a day, or seven dollars by the week. He engaged a week's board, reflecting that he could probably work to advantage a week in so large a place, or, if not, that five days at the daily rate would amount to more than the weekly terms.
He did not at first propose to do anything that evening until it occurred to him that he might perhaps dispose of a copy of his book to the landlord in part payment for his board. He went into the public room after supper.
"Are you travelling alone?" asked the landlord, who had his share of curiosity.
"Yes," said Walter.
"Not on business?"
"Yes, on business."
"What might it be now? You are rather young to be in business."
"I am a book-agent."
"Meeting with pretty good success?"
"I'm just beginning," said Walter, smiling. "If you'll be my first customer, I'll stop with you a week."
"What kind of a book have you got?"
Walter showed it. It was got up in the usual style of subscription books, with abundance of illustrations.
"It's one of the best books we ever sent out," said Walter, in a professional way. "Just look at the number of pictures. If you've got any children, they'll like it; and, if you haven't, it will be just the book for your centre-table."
"I see you know how to talk," said the landlord, smiling. "What is the price?"
"Three dollars and a half."
"That's considerable."
"But you know I'm going to take it out in board."
"Well, that's a consideration, to be sure. A man doesn't feel it so much as if he took the money out of his pocket and paid cash down. What do you say, Mrs. Burton?" addressing his wife, who just then entered the room. "This young man wants to stay here a week, and pay partly in a book he is agent for. Shall I agree?"
"Let me see the book," said Mrs. Burton, who was a comely, pleasant-looking woman of middle age. "What's the name of it?"
"'Scenes in Bible Lands,'" said Walter.
He opened it, taking care to display and point out the pictures.
"I declare it is a nice book," said Mrs. Burton. "Is there a picture of Jerusalem?"
"Here it is," said Walter, who happened to know just where to find it. "Isn't it a good picture? And there are plenty more as good. It's a book that ought to be in every family."
"Really, Mr. Burton, I don't know but we might as well take it," said the landlady. "He takes it out in board, you know."
"Just as you say," said the landlord. "I am willing."
"Then I'll take the book. Emma will like to look at it."
So Walter made the first sale, on which he realized a profit of one dollar and a quarter.
"It's a pretty easy way to earn money," he reflected with satisfaction, "if I can only sell copies enough. One copy sold will pay for a day's board."
He went to bed early, and enjoyed a sound and refreshing sleep. He was cheered with hopes of success on the morrow. If he could sell four copies a day, that would give him a profit of five dollars, and five dollars would leave him a handsome profit after paying expenses.
The next morning after breakfast he started out, carrying with him three books. Knowing nothing of the residents of the village, he could only judge by the outward appearance of their houses. Seeing a large and handsome house standing back from the street, he decided to call.
"The people living here must be rich," he thought. "They won't mind paying three dollars and a half for a nice book."
Accordingly he walked up the gravelled path and rang the front-door bell. The door was opened by a housemaid.
"Is the lady of the house at home?" asked Walter.
"Do you want to see her?"
"Yes."
"Then wait here, and I'll tell her."
A tall woman, with a thin face and a pinched expression, presented herself after five minutes.
"Well, young man," she asked, after a sharp glance, "what is your business?"
Her expression was not very encouraging, but Walter was bound not to lose an opportunity.
"I should like to show you a new book, madam," he commenced, "a book of great value, beautifully illustrated, which is selling like wildfire."
"How many copies have you sold?" inquired the lady, sharply.
"One," answered Walter, rather confused.
"Do you call that selling like wildfire?" she demanded with sarcasm.
"I only commenced last evening," said Walter, "I referred to the sales of other agents."
"What's the name of the book?"
"'Scenes in Bible Lands.'"
"Let me see it."
Walter displayed the book.
"Look at the beautiful pictures," he said.
"I don't see anything remarkable about them. The binding isn't very strong. Shouldn't wonder if the book would go to pieces in a week."
"I don't think there'll be any trouble that way," said Walter.
"If it does, you'll be gone, so it won't trouble you."
"With ordinary care it will hold long enough."
"Oh, yes, of course you'd say so. I expected it. How much do you charge for the book?"
"Three dollars and a half."
"Three dollars and a half!" repeated the woman. "You seem to think people are made of money."
"I don't fix the price, madam," said Walter, rather provoked. "The publishers do that."
"I warrant they make two-thirds profit. Don't they now?"
"I don't know," said Walter. "I don't know anything about the cost of publishing books; but this is a large one, and there are a great many pictures in it. They must have cost considerable."
"Seems to me it's ridiculous to ask such a price for a book. Why, it's enough to buy a nice dress pattern!"
"The book will last longer than the dress," said Walter.
"But it is not so necessary. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'd like the book well enough to put on my parlor-table. I'll give you two dollars for it."
"Two dollars!" ejaculated Walter, scarcely crediting the testimony of his ears.
"Yes, two dollars; and I warrant you'll make money enough then."
"I should lose money," said Walter. "I couldn't think of accepting such an offer."
"In my opinion there isn't any book worth even two dollars."
"I see we can't trade," said Walter, disgusted at such meanness in a lady who occupied so large a house, and might be supposed to have plenty of money.
He began to replace the book in its brown-paper covering.
"I don't know but I might give you twenty-five cents more. Come now, I'll give you two dollars and a quarter."
"I can't take it," said Walter, shortly. "Three dollars and a half is the price, and I will not take a cent less."
"You won't get it out of me then," retorted the lady, slamming the door in displeasure.
Walter had already made up his mind to this effect, and had started on his way to the gate.
"I wonder if I shall meet many people like her," he thought, and his courage was rather damped.
CHAPTER XXVI. BUSINESS EXPERIENCES.
Walter began to think that selling books would prove a harder and more disagreeable business than he anticipated. He had been brought face to face with meanness and selfishness, and they inspired him with disgust and indignation. Not that he expected everybody to buy his books, even if they could afford it. Still it was not necessary to insult him by offering half price.
He walked slowly up the street, wondering if he should meet any more such customers. On the opposite side of the street he noticed a small shoemaker's shop.
"I suppose it is of no use to go in there," thought Walter. "If they won't buy at a big house, there isn't much chance here."
Still he thought he would go in. He had plenty of time on his hands, and might as well let slip no chance, however small.
He pushed open the door, and found himself in a shop about twenty-five feet square, littered up with leather shavings and finished and unfinished shoes. A boy of fourteen was pegging, and his father, a man of middle age, was finishing a shoe.
"Good-morning," said Walter.
"Good-morning," said the shoemaker, turning round. "Do you want a pair of shoes this morning?"
"No," said Walter, "I didn't come to buy, but to sell."
"Well, what have you got to sell?"
"A subscription book, finely illustrated."
"What's the name of it?"
"'Scenes in Bible Lands.'"
"Let me look at it."
He wiped his hands on his apron, and, taking the book, began to turn over the leaves.
"It seems like a good book," he said. "Does it sell well?"
"Yes, it sells largely. I have only just commenced, but other agents are doing well on it."
"You are rather young for an agent."
"Yes, but I'm old enough to work, and I'm going to give this a fair trial."
"That's the way to talk. How much do you expect to get for this book?"
"The price is three dollars and a half."
"It's rather high."
"But there are a good many pictures. Those are what cost money."
"Yes, I suppose they do. Well, I've a great mind to take one."
"I don't think you'll regret it. A good book will give you pleasure for a long time."
"That's so. Well, here's the money;" and the shoemaker drew out five dollars from a leather pocket-book. "Can you give me the change?"
"With pleasure."
Walter was all the more pleased at effecting this sale because it was unexpected. He had expected to sell a book at the great house he had just called at, but thought that the price of the book might deter the shoemaker, whose income probably was not large. He thought he would like to know the name of the lady with whom he had such an unpleasant experience.
"Can you tell me," he inquired, "who lives in that large house a little way up the street?"
"You didn't sell a book there, did you?" asked the shoemaker, laughing.
"No, but I got an offer of two dollars for one."
"That's just like Mrs. Belknap," returned the other. "She has the name of being the meanest woman for miles around."
"It can't be for want of money. She lives in a nice house."
"Oh, she's rich enough,—the richest woman in town. When her husband was alive—old Squire Belknap—she wasn't quite so scrimping, for he was free-handed and liberal himself; but now she's a widow, she shows out her meanness. So she offered you two dollars?"
"Yes, but she afterwards offered twenty-five cents more."
"Then she must have wanted the book. She makes it her boast that no peddler ever took her in, and I guess she's about right."
"I hope there are not many such people in town. If there are, I shall get discouraged."
"We've got our share of mean people, I expect, but she's the worst."
"Well, I suppose I must be going. Thank you for your purchase."
"That's all right. If I like the book as well as I expect, I'll thank you."
Walter left the shoemaker's shop with considerably higher spirits than he entered. His confidence in human nature, which had been rudely shaken by Mrs. Belknap, was in a degree restored, and his prospects looked brighter than a few minutes before.
"I wonder who'll make the next purchase?" he thought.
He stopped at a plain two-story house a little further up the road. The door was opened by an old lady.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I am agent for an excellent book," commenced Walter.
"Oh, you're a peddler," broke in the old lady, without waiting to hear him through.
"I suppose I may be called so."
"Are you the man that was round last spring selling jewelry?"
"No, I have never been here before."
"I don't know whether to believe you or not," said the old lady. "Your voice sounds like his. I can't see very well, for I've mislaid my specs. If you're the same man, I'll have you took up for selling bogus jewelry."
"But I'm not the same one."
"I don't know. The man I spoke of sold my darter a gold ring for a dollar, that turned out to be nothing but brass washed over. 'Twa'n't worth five cents."
"I'm sorry you got cheated, but it isn't my fault."
"Wait a minute, I'll call my darter."
In reply to her mother's call a tall maiden lady of forty advanced to the door, with some straw in her hand, for she was braiding straw.
"What's wanted, mother?" she asked.
"Isn't this the same man that sold you that ring?"
"La, no, mother. He was a man of forty-five, and this is only a boy."
"I s'pose you must be right, but I can't see without my specs. Well, I'm sorry you're not the one, for I'd have had you took up onless you'd give back the dollar."
Under the circumstances Walter himself was not sorry that there was no chance of identifying him with his knavish predecessor.
"What have you got to sell?" asked the younger woman.
"A book beautifully illustrated, called 'Scenes in Bible Lands.' Will you allow me to show it to you?"
"He seems quite polite," said the old lady, now disposed to regard Walter more favorably. "Won't you come in?"
Walter entered, and was shown into a small sitting-room, quite plainly furnished. The book was taken from him, and examined for a considerable length of time by the daughter, who, however, announced at the end that though she should like it very much, she couldn't afford to pay the price. As the appearance of the house bore out her assertion, Walter did not press the purchase, but was about to replace the book under his arm, when she said suddenly, "Wait a minute. There's Mrs. Thurman just coming in. Perhaps she'll buy one of your books."
Walter was of course perfectly willing to wait on the chance of a sale.
Mrs. Thurman was the wife of a trader in good circumstances, and disposed to spend liberally, according to her means. Walter was not obliged to recommend his book, for this was done by the spinster, who was disinterestedly bent on making a sale. So he sat quiet, a passive but interested auditor, while Miss Nancy Sprague extolled the book for him.
"It does seem like an excellent book," said Mrs. Thurman, looking at the pictures.
"Just the thing for your Delia," suggested Miss Nancy; "I am sure she would like it."
"That reminds me to-morrow is Delia's birthday."
"Then give her the book for a birthday present."
"I had intended to buy her something else. Still I am not sure but this would suit her quite as well."
"I am sure it would," responded Miss Nancy.
"Then I will take it. Young man, how much do you ask for your book?"
"Three dollars and a half."
Mrs. Thurman paid the money, and received the book.
"I am much obliged to you," said Walter, addressing Miss Nancy, "for recommending my book."
"You're quite welcome," said Miss Nancy, who felt some satisfaction at gaining her point, though it would not benefit her any. "I'm sure you are quite polite for a peddler, and I hope you'll excuse mother for making such a mistake about you."
"That is of no consequence," said Walter, smiling. "I think if your mother had had her glasses on she would not have made such a mistake."
He left the house still farther encouraged. But during the next hour he failed to sell another copy. At length he managed to sell a third. As these were all he had brought out, and he was feeling rather tired, he went back to the tavern, and did not come out again till after dinner. He had sold three copies and cleared three dollars and seventy-five cents, which he was right in regarding as very fair success.
CHAPTER XXVII. A CABIN IN THE WOODS.
Walter found a good dinner ready for him at twelve o'clock, which he enjoyed the more because he felt that he had earned it in advance. He waited till about two o'clock, and again set out, this time in a different direction. As it takes all sorts of people to make a world, so the reception he met with at different places differed. In some he was received politely; in others he was treated as a humbug. But Walter was by this time getting accustomed to his position, and found that he must meet disagreeable people with as good humor as he could command. One farmer was willing to take the book if he would accept pay in apples, of which he offered him two barrels; but this offer he did not for a moment entertain, judging that he would find it difficult to carry about the apples, and probably difficult to dispose of them. However, he managed to sell two copies, though he had to call at twenty places to do it. Nevertheless, he felt well repaid by the degree of success he met with.
"Five books sold to-day!" thought Walter, complacently, as he started on his walk home. "That gives me six dollars and a quarter profit. I wish I could keep that up."
But our young merchant found that he was not likely to keep up such sales. The next day he sold but two copies, and the day succeeding three. Still for three days and a half the aggregate sale was eleven copies, making a clear profit of thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents. At the end of the week he had sold twenty copies; but to make up this number he had been obliged to visit one or two neighboring villages.
He now prepared to move on. The next place at which he proposed to stop for a few days we will call Bolton. He had already written to Cleveland for a fresh supply of books to be forwarded to him there. He had but two books left, and his baggage being contained in a small valise, he decided to walk this distance, partly out of economy, but principally because it would enable him to see the country at his leisure. During the first five miles he succeeded in selling both books, which relieved him of the burden of carrying them, leaving him only his valise.
Walter was strong and stout, and enjoyed his walk. There was a freshness and novelty about his present mode of life, which he liked. He did not imagine he should like to be a book-agent all his life, but for a time he found it quite agreeable.
He stopped under the shade of a large elm and ate the lunch which he had brought with him from the inn. The sandwiches and apples were good, and, with the addition of some water from a stream near by, made a very acceptable lunch. When he resumed his walk after resting a couple of hours, the weather had changed. In the morning it was bright sunshine. Now the clouds had gathered, and a storm seemed imminent. To make matters worse, Walter had managed to stray from the road. He found himself walking in a narrow lane, lined on either side by thick woods. Soon the rain come pattering down, at first in small drops, but quickly poured down in a drenching shower. Walter took refuge in the woods, congratulating himself that he had sold the books, which otherwise would have run the risk of being spoiled.
"I wish there were some house near by in which I could rest," thought Walter. The prospect of being benighted in the woods in such weather was far from pleasant.
Looking around anxiously, he espied a small foot-path, which he followed, hoping, but hardly expecting, that it might lead to some place of refuge. To his agreeable surprise he emerged after a few minutes into a small clearing, perhaps half an acre in extent, in the middle of which was a rough cabin. It was a strange place for a house, but, rude as it was, Walter hailed its appearance with joy. At all events it promised protection from the weather, and the people who occupied it would doubtless be willing to give him, for pay of course, supper and lodging. Probably the accommodations would not be first class, but our hero was prepared to take what he could get, and be thankful for it. Accordingly he advanced fearlessly and pounded on the door with his fist, as there was neither bell nor knocker.
The door not being opened immediately, he pounded again. This time a not particularly musical voice was heard from within:—
"Is that you, Jack?"
"No," answered Walter, "it isn't Jack."
His voice was probably recognized as that of a boy, and any apprehension that might have been felt by the person within was dissipated. Walter heard a bolt withdrawn, and the door opening revealed a tall, gaunt, bony woman, who eyed him in a manner which could not be considered very friendly or cordial.
"Who are you?" she demanded abruptly, keeping the door partly closed.
"I am a book-agent," said Walter.
"Do you expect to sell any books here?" asked the woman, with grim humor.
"No," said Walter, "but I have been caught in the storm, and lost my way. Can I stop here over night if the storm should hold on?"
"This isn't a tavern," said the woman, ungraciously.
"No, I suppose not," said Walter; "but it will be a favor to me if you will take me in, and I will pay you whatever you think right. I suppose there is no tavern near by."
He half hoped there might be, for he had already made up his mind that this would not be a very agreeable place to stop at.
"There's one five miles off," said the woman.
"That's too far to go in such weather. If you'll let me stay here, I will pay you whatever you ask in advance."
"Humph!" said the woman, doubtfully, "I don't know how Jack will like it."
As Walter could know nothing of the sentiments of the Jack referred to, he remained silent, and waited for the woman to make up her mind, believing that she would decide in his favor.
He proved to be right.
"Well," she said, half unwillingly, "I don't know but I'll take you in, though it isn't my custom to accommodate travellers."
"I will try not to give you much trouble," said Walter, relieved to find that he was sure of food and shelter.
"Humph!" responded the woman.
She led the way into the building, which appeared to contain two rooms on the first floor, and probably the same number of chambers above. There was no entry, but the door opened at once into the kitchen.
"Come up to the fire if you're wet," said the woman.
The invitation was hospitable, but the manner was not. However, Walter was glad to accept the invitation, without thinking too much of the manner in which it was expressed, for his clothes were pretty well saturated by the rain. There was no stove, but an old brick fireplace, on which two stout logs were burning. There was one convenience at least about living in the woods. Fuel was abundant, and required nothing but the labor of cutting it.
"I think I'll take off my shoes," said Walter.
"You can if you want to," said his grim hostess.
He extended his wet feet towards the fire, and felt a sense of comfort stealing over him. He could hear the rain falling fiercely against the sides of the cabin, and felt glad that he was not compelled to stand the brunt of the storm.