“Now, George, how many times have I told you I don't want to see strangers when I'm playing billiards! This is just some book agent, or insurance man, or somebody with something to sell. I don't want to see him, and I'm not going to.”
“Oh, but this is a gentleman, I'm sure, Mr. Clemens. Just look at his card, suh.”
“Yes, of course, I see—nice engraved card—but I don't know him, and if it was St. Peter himself I wouldn't buy the key of salvation! You tell him so—tell him—oh, well, I suppose I've got to go and get rid of him myself. I'll be back in a minute, Whitmore.”
He ran down the stairs, and as he got near the parlor door, which stood open, he saw a man sitting on a couch with what seemed to be some framed water-color pictures on the floor near his feet.
“Ah, ha!” he thought, “I see. A picture agent. I'll soon get rid of him.”
He went in with his best, “Well, what can I do for you?” air, which he, as well as any man living, knew how to assume; a friendly air enough, but not encouraging. The gentleman rose and extended his hand.
“How are you, Mr. Clemens?” he said.
Of course this was the usual thing with men who had axes to grind or goods to sell. Clemens did not extend a very cordial hand. He merely raised a loose, indifferent hand—a discouraging hand.
“And how is Mrs. Clemens?” asked the uninvited guest.
So this was his game. He would show an interest in the family and ingratiate himself in that way; he would be asking after the children next.