“Goods and price? What are you talking about?” demanded the young man quickly.
“The goods I have to sell—knives, forks, and spoons.”
“Oh, pshaw! I thought you were another of those chumps that want my place here. Old Mattison gave me notice to quit next Saturday, and 82 put an advertisement in the paper for a new clerk, and there have been about a dozen here already.”
“And none of them suit?”
“Suit! He’s a man that is never suited.”
“Then perhaps I won’t be able to sell him any goods,” returned Matt, his heart sinking.
“It ain’t likely. Business is poor, and he ain’t buying more than he can help. You can try him, though.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ll call him.”
The young man behind the desk rang the bell for one of the waiters, and sent that individual upstairs for the proprietor. The waiter was gone nearly five minutes before he returned, accompanied by a short, stout man, with bushy black hair and a heavy beard.