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.
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