"Just think, Boss," he continued, "going around from town after town. Lot of places he sleep at just like what a bum has. Lots of folks give him cold turn-down. When he gets decent treatment from a merchant, he look upon it as a—what do you call the place in the sand where they have trees and water?"
"An oasis in the desert?"
"Yes, that's it, Boss. An oasis in the desert."
"Larsen, you old vagabond, I believe you're right; and if that pencil sharpener fellow doesn't give his agency to Barlow"—I grinned as I said this—"I'll—I'll turn him down with a smile!"
"That's all right, Boss; but how you know you want to turn him down?"
"Oh, we don't want to handle those things. We're not in the stationery business. That's a stationer's line!"
"But why?" persisted Larsen.
"Why? Because stationers sell pencils!"
"Y-yes, y-yes," said Larsen with a drawl, "and so do 5 and 10-cent stores—and department stores—and drygood stores—and drug stores. Why not hardware stores? Do you know, Boss, I think hardware people sleepy on the switch. We sell razors, and then let the fellers go to the drug store to buy powder an' soap an' brushes. We got a few brushes, but seem scared to show 'em. What happens? The druggist sells 'em the powder and then they give us a devil"—again I put up my hand, I was trying to break Larsen of swearing—"well, they give us a run for our money because they sell razors. I was up to New York last year, and I saw a drug store that had a picture frame department, and a line of toys, and brass and copper novelties—everything what we ought to sell and what was ours till we let these other stores swipe it from us."
Here Larsen stopped for breath. This was a lot for him to say at one time, but he was "wound up" evidently for he resumed.