Frank placed his name in the hotel book and then, after brushing up a bit, set out with his case of books in his hand, to see what he could do. The extra volumes he had brought along he left at the hotel.
He had an idea that he could do better just outside of the town than in it, and so took to a road which led to another settlement two miles away.
He soon came to a neat-looking farmhouse, and going up to the front door, rang the bell. A tall, thin woman, with a hard face, came to answer his summons.
“Good-morning, madam,” began Frank politely.
“What do you want, young man?” the woman demanded, briefly.
“If you have a few minutes to spare I’d like to call your attention to several books I am selling.”
“Books! You get right out of this doorway, or I’ll set our dog on you!” she cried, shrilly. “What impudence! To take me from my baking like this!” And she slammed the door in Frank’s face.
It was certainly a cold reception, and the young book agent’s face grew red with mortification. He was on the point of making an angry retort, but checked himself, and, instead, left the yard whistling merrily.
“That was a flat failure,” he reasoned. “But as I am bound to have them I must make the best of them.”
He visited three farmhouses in succession, but nobody cared to buy books. Some said they had too many books already, and others said they had no money to spare.