Putnam Jones spoke suddenly at Barnes's shoulder. He started
involuntarily. The man was beginning to get on his nerves. He seemed
to be dogging his footsteps with ceaseless persistency.
"That feller over there in the corner," said Jones, softly, "is a
book-agent from your town. He sold me a set of Dickens when he was
here last time, about six weeks ago. A year's subscription to two
magazines throwed in. By gosh, these book-agents are slick ones. I
didn't want that set of Dickens any more'n I wanted a last year's
bird's nest. The thing I'm afraid of is that he'll talk me into taking
a set of Scott before he moves on. He's got me sweatin' already."
"He's a shrewd looking chap," commented Barnes.
"Says he won't be satisfied till he's made this section of the country
the most cultured, refined spot in the United States," said Jones
dolefully. "He brags about how much he did toward makin' Boston the
literary centre of the United States, him and his father before him.
Together, he says, they actually elevated Boston from the bottomless
pit of ignorance and----Excuse me. There goes the telephone. Maybe
it's news from the sheriff."
With the spasmodic tinkling of the telephone bell, the book-agent
arose and made his way to the little office.
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