She laughed. “Go on, Helen,” she said, “you can’t kid me! I bought a whole set of books last year from an agent—The World’s Great Funeral Orations—twenty volumes. Sam and I ain’t read more’n the first volume yet. It’s awful uneasy reading!”
Mifflin jumped down, and raised the side flap of the wagon. Mrs. Mason came closer. I was tickled to see how the little man perked up at the sight of a customer. Evidently selling books was meat and drink to him.
“Madam,” he said, “Funeral Orations (bound in sackcloth, I suppose?) have their place, but Miss McGill and I have got some real books here to which I invite your attention. Winter will be here soon, and you will need something more cheerful to beguile your evenings. Very possibly you have growing children who would profit by a good book or two. A book of fairy tales for the little girl I see on the porch? Or stories of inventors for that boy who is about to break his neck jumping from the barn loft? Or a book about road making for your husband? Surely there is something here you need? Miss McGill probably knows your tastes.”
That little red-bearded man was surely a born salesman. How he guessed that Mr. Mason was the road commissioner in our township, goodness only knows. Perhaps it was just a lucky shot. By this time most of the family had gathered around the van, and I saw Mr. Mason coming from the barn with his twelve-year-old Billy.
“Sam,” shouted Mrs. Mason, “here’s Miss McGill turned book pedlar and got a preacher with her!”
“Hello, Miss McGill,” said Mr. Mason. He is a big, slow-moving man of great gravity and solidity. “Where’s Andrew?”
“Andrew’s coming home for roast pork and apple sauce,” I said, “and I’m going off to sell books for a living. Mr. Mifflin here is teaching me how. We’ve got a book on road mending that’s just what you need.”
I saw Mr. and Mrs. Mason exchange glances. Evidently they thought me crazy. I began to wonder whether we had made a mistake in calling on people I knew so well. The situation was a trifle embarrassing.
Mr. Mifflin came to the rescue.
“Don’t be alarmed, sir,” he said to Mr. Mason. “I haven’t kidnapped Miss McGill.” (As he is about half my size this was amusing.) “We are trying to increase her brother’s income by selling his books for him. As a matter of fact, we have a wager with him that we can sell fifty copies of Happiness and Hayseed before Halloween. Now I’m sure your sporting instinct will assist us by taking at least one copy. Andrew McGill is probably the greatest author in this state, and every taxpayer ought to possess his books. May I show you a copy?”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Mr. Mason, and he almost smiled. “What do you say, Emma, think we better buy a book or two? You know those Funeral Orations …”
“Well,” said Emma, “you know we’ve always said we ought to read one of Andrew McGill’s books but we didn’t rightly know how to get hold of one. That fellow that sold us the funeral speeches didn’t seem to know about ’em. I tell you what, you folks better stop and have dinner with us and you can tell us what we’d ought to buy. I’m just ready to put the potatoes on the stove now.”
I must confess that the prospect of sitting down to a meal I hadn’t cooked myself appealed to me strongly; and I was keen to see what kind of grub Mrs. Mason provided for her household; but I was afraid that if we dallied there too long Andrew would be after us. I was about to say that we would have to be getting on, and couldn’t stay; but apparently the zest of expounding his philosophy to new listeners was too much for Mifflin. I heard him saying:
“That’s mighty kind of you, Mrs. Mason, and we’d like very much to stay. Perhaps I can put Peg up in your barn for a while. Then we can tell you all about our books.” And to my amazement I found myself chiming in with assent.
Mifflin certainly surpassed himself at dinner. The fact that Mrs. Mason’s hot biscuits tasted of saleratus gave me far less satisfaction than it otherwise would, because I was absorbed in listening to the little vagabond’s talk. Mr. Mason came to the table grumbling something about his telephone being out of order—(I wondered whether he had been trying to get Andrew on the wire; he was a little afraid that I was being run away with, I think)—but he was soon won over by the current of the little man’s cheery wit. Nothing daunted Mifflin. He talked to the old grandmother about quilts; offered to cut off a strip of his necktie for her new patchwork; and told all about the illustrated book on quilts that he had in the van. He discussed cookery and the Bible with Mrs. Mason; and she being a leading light in the Greenbriar Sunday School, was pleasantly scandalized by his account of the best detective stories in the Old Testament. With Mr. Mason he was all scientific farming, chemical manures, macadam roads, and crop rotation; and to little Billy (who sat next him) he told extraordinary yarns about Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Kit Carson, Buffalo Bill, and whatnot. Honestly I was amazed at the little man. He was as genial as a cricket on the hearth, and yet every now and then his earnestness would break through. I don’t wonder he was a success at selling books. That man could sell clothes pins or Paris garters, I guess, and make them seem romantic.
“You know, Mr. Mason,” he said, “you certainly owe it to these youngsters of yours to put a few really good books into their hands. City kids have the libraries to go to, but in the country there’s only old Doc Hostetter’s Almanac and the letters
