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.
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