I thought if I was going to try to sell books I might as well
have some fun out of it. Most of the old ladies were
squatting about in the parlour, knitting or reading or playing
cards. In the smoking-room I could see two dried-up men. Mrs.
Hominy, the manager of the place, was sitting at her desk
behind a brass railing, going over accounts with a quill pen.
I thought that the house probably hadn't had a shock since
Walt Whitman wrote "Leaves of Grass." In a kind of do-or-die
spirit I determined to give them a rouse.
In the dining-room I had noticed a huge dinner bell that stood
behind the door. I stepped in there, and got it. Standing in
the big hall I began ringing it as hard as I could shake my arm.
You might have thought it was a fire alarm. Mrs. Hominy
dropped her pen in horror. The colonial dames in the parlour
came to life and ran into the hall like cockroaches. In a
minute I had gathered quite a respectable audience. It was up
to me to do the spellbinding.
"Friends," I said (unconsciously imitating the Professor's
tricks of the trade, I guess), "this bell which generally
summons you to the groaning board now calls you to a literary
repast. With the permission of the management, and with
apologies for disturbing your tranquillity, I will deliver a
few remarks on the value of good books.
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