"First rate."

"You may take that copy in your hand; you will want to finish it."

"Thank you, sir; I will be careful of it."

"You may keep it. Let that be the beginning of your own private library."

His own private library! Bobby had not got far enough to dream of such a thing yet; but he thanked Mr. Bayard, and put the book under his arm.

After tea, Ellen proposed to her father that they should all go to the Museum. Mr. Bayard acceded, and our hero was duly amazed at the drolleries perpetrated there. He had a good time; but it was so late when he went to bed, that he was a little fearful lest he should over-sleep himself in the morning.

He did not, however, and was down in the parlor before any of the rest of the family were stirring. An early breakfast was prepared for him, at which Mr. Bayard, who intended to see him off, joined him. Depositing his little bundle and the copy of "The Wayfarer" in the valise provided for him, they walked to the store. The porter wheeled the trunk down to the railroad station, though Bobby insisted upon doing it himself.

The bookseller saw him and his baggage safely aboard of the cars, gave him a ticket, and then bade him an affectionate adieu. In a little while Bobby was flying over the rail, and at about eight o'clock reached B----.

The station master kindly permitted him to deposit his trunk in the baggage room, and to leave it there for the remainder of the week.

Taking a dozen of the books from the trunk, and placing them in his valise, he sallied out upon his mission. It must be confessed that his heart was filled with a tumult of emotions. The battle of life was before him. He was on the field, sword in hand, ready to plunge into the contest. It was victory or defeat.

"March on, brave youth! the field of strife With peril fraught before thee lies; March on! the battle plain of life Shall yield thee yet a glorious prize."

It was of no use to shrink then, even if he had felt disposed to do so. He was prepared to be rebuffed, to be insulted, to be turned away from the doors at which he should seek admission; but he was determined to conquer.

He had reached a house at which he proposed to offer "The Wayfarer"

for sale. His heart went pit pat, pit pat, and he paused before the door.

"Now or never!" exclaimed he, as he swung open the garden gate, and made his way up to the door.

He felt some misgivings. It was so new and strange to him that he could hardly muster sufficient resolution to proceed farther. But his irresolution was of only a moment's duration.

"Now or never!" and he gave a vigorous knock at the door.

It was opened by an elderly lady, whose physiognomy did not promise much.

"Good morning, ma'am. Can I sell you a copy of 'The Wayfarer' to-day?

a new book, just published."

"No; I don't want none of your books. There's more pedlers round the country now than you could shake a stick at in a month," replied the old lady, petulantly.

"It is a very interesting book, ma'am; has an excellent moral." Bobby had read the preface, as I before remarked. "It will suit you, ma'am; for you look just like a lady who wants to read something with a moral."

Bravo, Bobby! The lady concluded that her face had a moral expression, and she was pleased with the idea.

"Let me see it;" and she asked Bobby to walk in and be seated, while she went for her spectacles.

As she was looking over the book, our hero went into a more elaborate recommendation of its merits. He was sure it would interest the young and the old; it taught a good lesson; it had elegant engravings; the type was large, which would suit her eyes; it was well printed and bound; and finally, it was cheap at one dollar.

"I'll take it," said the old lady.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Bobby's first victory was achieved.

"Have you got a dollar?" asked the lady, as she handed him a two-dollar bill.

"Yes, ma'am;" and he gave her his only dollar and put the two in its place, prouder than a king who has conquered an empire. "Thank you ma'am."

Bidding the lady a polite good morning, he left the house, encouraged by his success to go forward in his mission with undiminished hope.

CHAPTER X

IN WHICH BOBBY IS A LITTLE TOO SMART

The clouds were rolled back, and Bobby no longer had a doubt as to the success of his undertaking. It requires but a little sunshine to gladden the heart, and the influence of his first success scattered all the misgivings he had cherished.

Two New England shillings is undoubtedly a very small sum of money; but Bobby had made two shillings, and he would not have considered himself more fortunate if some unknown relative had left him a fortune. It gave him confidence in his powers, and as he walked away from the house, he reviewed the circ.u.mstances of his first sale.

The old lady had told him at first she did not wish to buy a book, and, moreover, had spoken rather contemptuously of the craft to which he had now the honor to belong. He gave himself the credit of having conquered the old lady's prejudices. He had sold her a book in spite of her evident intention not to purchase. In short, he had, as we have before said, won a glorious victory, and he congratulated himself accordingly.

But it was of no use to waste time in useless self-glorification, and Bobby turned from the past to the future. There were forty-nine more books to be sold; so that the future was forty-nine times as big as the past.

He saw a shoemaker's shop ahead of him, and he was debating with himself whether he should enter and offer his books for sale. It would do no harm, though he had but slight expectations of doing anything.

There were three men at work in the shop--one of them a middle-aged man, the other two young men. They looked like persons of intelligence, and as soon as Bobby saw them his hopes grew stronger.

"Can I sell you any books to-day?" asked the little merchant, as he crossed the threshold.

"Well, I don't know; that depends upon how smart you are," replied the eldest of the men. "It takes a pretty smart fellow to sell anything in this shop."

"Then I hope to sell each of you a book," added Bobby, laughing at the badinage of the shoemaker.

Opening his valise he took out three copies of his book, and politely handed one to each of the men.

"It isn't every book pedler that comes along who offers you such a work as that. 'The Wayfarer' is decidedly _the_ book of the season."

"You don't say so!" said the oldest shoemaker, with a laugh. "Every pedler that comes along uses those words, precisely."

"Do they? They steal my thunder then."

"You are an old one."

"Only thirteen. I was born where they don't fasten the door with a boiled carrot."

"What do they fasten them with?"