”North Carolina,” I replied.
”Oh, then,” said he, walking with me to the head of some stairs that led to a gas-lighted apartment below, ”you want to see Mr. Bantam. Ban-tum! Ban-tum!” he called in his loudest tone, accenting the last syllable, and giving it the ”u” sound. ”Mr. Bantam is from your State; he is down stairs now with Col.—— from Raleigh, in flannels. Will be up in a moment. How’s trade in your section?”
”I am not a merchant,” I replied, wondering what Mr. Bantam could be doing with Col.—— in flannel, and if the Col. had forgotten his under garments when leaving home.
At this moment Mr. Bantam, an elderly man, slightly bald, appeared at the bottom of the stairway and called out: ”Who is it, Johnson?”
”A gentleman from your State.”
”All right; I’ll be up in five minutes.”
”Wait a few moments, sir,” said Johnson, going back to his post at the door.
Leaning back against a case of prints, I looked around at this hive of human bees. From floor to floor, from wall to wall, were heaped and piled, like immense breastworks, goods and merchandise of almost every description; case after case of prints, rolls upon rolls of cloths and cassimeres, long brilliant rows of dress goods, boxes of glittering silks, long counters of notions, great heaps of shawls, rugs and blankets; laces, ribbons, and white goods; every department marked by placards with hands pointing to it, and over each another placard with terms of sale: ”30 days,” ”Regular,” or ”Net.”
Everywhere, at every case, around every heap of goods were the salesmen and merchants, bending over fabrics, examining their texture, standing off to get the full effect of the figure; the one class praising and overrating, the other undervaluing and quoting prices from other houses. Just here, at the case next to me, is a fancy young man, with brilliant studs and a flash cravat, a pencil across his mouth like a bit, and his shirt sleeves held up by gutta percha bands, diving head foremost into a box and bringing up a piece of goods, which he exhibits with a slap, as if it were a horse, and winks at a passing comrade, who pinches his arm and says: ”How is it, Saunders?” while the merchant, an old fellow from the country, with a broad felt hat and long coat, who licks his short stump of a pencil whenever he sets down anything in his memorandum book, which has his name in gilt letters on the back, and was sent to him by some advertising house, is bending down to examine it. Over there is a red-faced man, in a Cardigan jacket, showing ——. But here is Mr. Bantam, who reads my card and exclaims: