I got to thinking how the Professor never
shirked carrying on his campaign, and I determined that I would be
worthy of the cause.
When I think back about the experience, it seems pretty crazy, but
at the time I was filled with a kind of evangelistic zeal. 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.
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