"Since my husband died I have partly earned my living by renting furnished rooms. This seems to be the first thing a woman thinks of doing when she is left unprovided for, but it isn't a business of large profits, and few of us ever cut 'melons.' My furniture, of course, represented my 'plant,' and it was growing shabby.
"That is, perhaps, why the glib agent got a hearing from me. He had a lovely proposition. Opening a catalogue he showed me pictures of beautiful pieces of furniture, made from expensive materials, just the kind that would make my rooms attractive and easy to rent.
"'Now,' said he, 'I am soliciting subscriptions for a weekly paper. This paper will cost you 10 cents a number, and with each number you get a coupon. When you have accumulated sixty-eight coupons you can bring them to our wareroom and select any one of these elegant pieces of furniture.'
"'Why,' said I, 'if these articles are as represented, I couldn't buy them at any store in town for three times what sixty-eight coupons would cost me—$6.80.'
The Old "Wareroom" Tale.
"'Call at our wareroom, lady, before you sign the contract, and you will see they are just as described.'
"Well, I saw the articles, and they were all they were said to be. They explained that they were practically giving them away in order to build up the circulation of the paper. Everything appeared to be all right, and I signed a contract. So did my widowed sister; so did some of my neighbors.
"The paper was worthless, but I didn't care. Sometimes I would buy several copies of one issue so as to make haste toward getting my sixty-eight coupons. The time came when I went around to select my furniture. I selected it, all right—a handsome chiffonier.
"'This chiffonier calls for 360 coupons,' said the man.
"'Why, your agent told me I could have any of these pieces when I had accumulated sixty-eight coupons,' said I, dismayed.