"Hello!" called the man from the street.
A smile touched the face of Andrew Barkswell.
"A confounded notion peddler," he muttered, "yet a queer-looking
specimen."
"Hello!"
At the second call Barkswell rose to his feet and walked out to the gate.
"Be you the man of the house?"
"I am."
"Wal, I've got the neatest set o' table-clothes you ever set eyes on.
Irish linen, direct from the green sod, warranted to be the best article
of the kind for the money in North America."
"I don't wish any."
"But you'll look at 'em. You're a gentleman; I can tell by the looks of
your countenance."
"I don't care for any."
"Hair oil, toilet articles, the neatest--"
"You needn't mind showing them," as the little, elderly man sprang out of
his low wagon and hobbled to the walk with a tin box under his arm.
"Where's the woman--your wife? Mebbe she'd like to look at something."
The man pushed his way through the gate and insisted on entering the
house.
This was wholly unnecessary Barkswell thought, but he permitted the
peddler to have his way.
Iris and her brother entered t spread out his wares.
Pages:
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123