“Hewlitt,” said the book agent, “Eliph' Hewlitt.”
He turned to the landlord and looked him fairly in the face, and as he looked the air of suspicion that had suddenly shone in his eyes vanished.
“Jim Wilkins!” he exclaimed. “Isn't it Jim Wilkins?”
“Ain't it!” cried the landlord. “Well, I should say it is! And to think, you little, sawed-off propagator of human knowledge didn't recognize your old side pardner in the field of sellin' improvin' and intellectooal works of genius! Don't say you don't remember the 'Wage of Sin,' Sammy! Don't say you don't remember Kitty!”
“Kitty?” asked Eliph' doubtfully.
“Well, if the little red-head ain't forgot Kitty!” exclaimed Wilkins. “Why, I MARRIED Kitty, Sammy. For an actual, truthful fact I did. And to think I should run across Sammy Mills after all these years.”
“Hewlitt,” said Eliph'. “Eliph' Hewlitt is that name I'm known by.”
“And to think you stuck by that name all these years!” said Wilkins. “And still sellin' works of literatoor, are you? Pap, this is my old boyhood's chum come meanderin' backwards out of the past. And still sellin' books! Well, I don't want to discourage your ambitiousness, but I guess you've struck Kilo about the worst time in the century. Ever hear of a literary writer called Sir Walter Scott? Well, sir, Kilo is chuck full of Sir Walter; full as a goat. She ain't begun to near git through with Sir Walter yet, and I don't figger she'll take in no more libraries just now. Sir Walter hit her pretty hard.”
“Ten volumes, fifteen dollars cloth, twenty dollars half morocco?” inquired Eliph' Hewlitt.
“The identical same,” said the landlord. “I purchased a group of Sir Walters in red leather myself. So did everybody in Kilo; at least I ain't found anybody that's been missed yet. Paper here got some.”