The clouds were rolled back, and Bobby no longer had a doubt as to the success of his undertaking. It requires but a little sunshine to gladden the heart, and the influence of his first success scattered all the misgivings he had cherished.
Two New England shillings is undoubtedly a very small sum of money; but Bobby had made two shillings, and he would not have considered himself more fortunate if some unknown relative had left him a fortune. It gave him confidence in his powers, and as he walked away from the house, he reviewed the circumstances of his first sale.
The old lady had told him at first she did not wish to buy a book, and, moreover, had spoken rather contemptuously of the craft to which he had now the honor to belong. He gave himself the credit of having conquered the old lady's prejudices. He had sold her a book in spite of her evident intention not to purchase. In short, he had, as we have before said, won a glorious victory, and he congratulated himself accordingly.
But it was of no use to waste time in useless self-glorification, and Bobby turned from the past to the future. There were forty-nine more books to be sold; so that the future was forty-nine times as big as the past.
He saw a shoemaker's shop ahead of him, and he was debating with himself whether he should enter and offer his books for sale. It would do no harm, though he had but slight expectations of doing anything.
There were three men at work in the shop—one of them a middle-aged man, the other two young men. They looked like persons of intelligence, and as soon as Bobby saw them his hopes grew stronger.
"Can I sell you any books to-day?" asked the little merchant, as he crossed the threshold.
"Well, I don't know; that depends upon how smart you are," replied the eldest of the men. "It takes a pretty smart fellow to sell anything in this shop."
"Then I hope to sell each of you a book," added Bobby, laughing at the badinage of the shoemaker.
Opening his valise he took out three copies of his book, and politely handed one to each of the men.
"It isn't every book pedler that comes along who offers you such a work as that. 'The Wayfarer' is decidedly the book of the season."
"You don't say so!" said the oldest shoemaker, with a laugh. "Every pedler that comes along uses those words, precisely."
"Do they? They steal my thunder then."
"You are an old one."
"Only thirteen. I was born where they don't fasten the door with a boiled carrot."
"What do they fasten them with?"
"They don't fasten them at all."
"There are no book pedlers round there, then;" and all the shoemakers laughed heartily at this smart sally.
"No; they are all shoemakers in our town."
"You can take my hat, boy."
"You will want it to put your head in; but I will take one dollar for that book instead."
The man laughed, took out his wallet, and handed Bobby the dollar, probably quite as much because he had a high appreciation of his smartness, as from any desire to possess the book.
"Won't you take one?" asked Bobby, appealing to another of the men, who was apparently not more than twenty-four years of age.
"No; I can't read," replied he roguishly.
"Let your wife read it to you, then."
"My wife?"
"Certainly; she knows how to read, I will warrant."
"How do you know I have got a wife?"
"O, well, a fellow as good looking and good natured as you are could not have resisted till this time."
"Has you, Tom," added the oldest shoemaker.
"I cave in;" and he handed over the dollar, and laid the book upon his bench.
Bobby looked at the third man with some interest. He had said nothing, and scarcely heeded the fun which was passing between the little merchant and his companions. He was apparently absorbed in his examination of the book. He was a different kind of person from the others, and Bobby's instinctive knowledge of human nature assured him that he was not to be gained by flattery or by smart sayings; so he placed himself in front of him, and patiently waited in silence for him to complete his examination.
"You will find that he is a hard one," put in one of the others.
Bobby made no reply, and the two men who had bought books resumed their work. For five minutes our hero stood waiting for the man to finish his investigation into the merits of "The Wayfarer." Something told him not to say anything to this person; and he had some doubts about his purchasing.
"I will take one," said the last shoemaker, as he handed Bobby the dollar.
"I am much obliged to you, gentlemen," said Bobby, as he closed his valise. "When I come this way again I shall certainly call."
"Do; you have done what no other pedler ever did in this shop."
"I shall take no credit to myself. The fact is, you are men of intelligence, and you want good books."
Bobby picked up his valise and left the shop, satisfied with those who occupied it, and satisfied with himself.
"Eight shillings!" exclaimed he, when he got into the road. "Pretty good hour's work, I should say."
Bobby trudged along till he came to a very large, elegant house, evidently dwelt in by one of the nabobs of B——. Inspired by past successes, he walked boldly up to the front door, and rang the bell.
"Is Mr. Whiting in?" asked Bobby, who had read the name on the door plate.
"Colonel Whiting is in," replied the servant, who had opened the door.
"I should like to see him for a moment, if he isn't busy."
"Walk in;" and for some reason or other the servant chuckled a great deal as she admitted him.
She conducted him to a large, elegantly furnished parlor, where Bobby proceeded to take out his books for the inspection of the nabob, whom the servant promised to send to the parlor.
In a moment Colonel Whiting entered. He was a large, fat man, about fifty years old. He looked at the little book merchant with a frown that would have annihilated a boy less spunky than our hero. Bobby was not a little inflated by the successes of the morning, and if Julius Cæsar or Napoleon Bonaparte had stood before him then, he would not have flinched a hair—much less in the presence of no greater magnate than the nabob of B——.
"Good morning, Colonel Whiting. I hope you are well this beautiful morning." Bobby began.
I must confess I think this was a little too familiar for a boy of thirteen to a gentleman of fifty, whom he had never seen before in his life; but it must be remembered that Bobby had done a great deal the week before, that on the preceding night he had slept in Chestnut Street, and that he had just sold four copies of "The Wayfarer." He was inclined to be smart, and some folks hate smart boys.
The nabob frowned; his cheek reddened with anger; but he did not condescend to make any reply to the smart speech.
"I have taken the liberty to call upon you this morning, to see if you did not wish to purchase a copy of 'The Wayfarer'—a new book just issued from the press, which people say is to be the book of the season."
My young readers need not suppose this was an impromptu speech, for Bobby had studied upon it all the time he was coming from Boston in the cars. It would be quite natural for a boy who had enjoyed no greater educational advantages than our hero to consider how he should address people into whose presence his calling would bring him; and he had prepared several little addresses of this sort, for the several different kinds of people whom he expected to encounter. The one he had just "got off" was designed for the "upper crust."
When he had delivered the speech, he approached the indignant, frowning nabob, and, with a low bow, offered him a copy of "The Wayfarer."
"Boy," said Colonel Whiting, raising his arm with majestic dignity, and pointing to the door,—"boy, do you see that door?"
Bobby looked at the door, and, somewhat astonished, replied that he did see it, that it was a very handsome door, and he would inquire whether it was black walnut, or only painted in imitation thereof.
"Do you see that door?" thundered the nabob, swelling with rage at the cool impudence of the boy.
"Certainly I do, sir; my eyesight is excellent."
"Then use it!"
"Thank you, sir; I have no use for it. Probably it will be of more service to you than to me."
"Will you clear out, or shall I kick you out?" gasped the enraged magnate of B——.
"I will save you that trouble, sir; I will go, sir. I see we have both made a mistake."
"Mistake? What do you mean by that, you young puppy? You are a little impudent, thieving scoundrel!"
"That is your mistake, sir. I took you for a gentleman, sir; and that was my mistake."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed a sweet, musical voice, and at that moment a beautiful young lady rushed up to the angry colonel, and threw her arms around his neck.
"The jade!" muttered he.
"I have caught you in a passion again, uncle;" and the lady kissed the old gentleman's anger-reddened cheek, which seemed to restore him at once to himself.
"It was enough to make a minister swear," said he, in apology.
"No, it wasn't, uncle; the boy was a little pert, it is true; but you ought to have laughed at him, instead of getting angry. I heard the whole of it."
"Pert?" said Bobby to himself. "What the deuce does she mean by that?"
"Very well, you little minx; I will pay the penalty."
"Come here, Master Pert," said the lady to Bobby.
Bobby bowed, approached the lady, and began to feel very much embarrassed.
"My uncle," she continued, "is one of the best-hearted men in the world—ain't you, uncle?"
"Go on, you jade!"
"I love him, as I would my own father; but he will sometimes get into a passion. Now, you provoked him."
"Indeed, ma'am, I hadn't the least idea of saying anything uncivil," pleaded Bobby. "I studied to be as polite as possible."
"I dare say. You were too important, too pompous, for a boy to an old gentleman like uncle, who is really one of the best men in the world. Now, if you hadn't studied to be polite, you would have done very well."
"Indeed, ma'am, I am a poor boy, trying to make a little money to help my mother. I am sure I meant no harm."
"I know you didn't. So you are selling books to help your mother?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She inquired still further into the little merchant's history, and seemed to be very much interested in him.
In a frolic, a few days before, Bobby learned from her, Colonel Whiting had agreed to pay any penalty she might name, the next time he got into a passion.
"Now, young man, what book have you to sell?" asked the lady.
"'The Wayfarer.'"
"How many have you in your valise?"
"Eight."
"Very well; now, uncle, I decree, as the penalty of your indiscretion, that you purchase the whole stock."
"I submit."
"'The Wayfarer' promises to be an excellent book; and I can name at least half a dozen persons who will thank you for a copy, uncle."
Colonel Whiting paid Bobby eight dollars, who left the contents of his valise on the centre table, and then departed, astounded at his good fortune, and fully resolved never to be too smart again.
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