It was now noon, and Frank’s face grew sober as he realized that half the day was gone and he had not sold a single volume. Was his bright prospect of the day previous to vanish after all?
“I’ve got to sell something, that’s certain,” he muttered, as he set his teeth hard. “Now, the very next call must mean a book sold.”
The next farmhouse soon came to view. As he walked up to the door he saw that the woman of the place and two men, evidently a father and son, were eating their dinner.
“Excuse me, madam,” said he, struck by a sudden thought. “But would you care to sell me a dinner? I don’t care to go away back to the hotel at Fairport.”
The farmer’s wife looked him over carefully.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Frank Hardy. I’m selling books for a living.”
“What does he want, Martha?” asked the husband.
“Wants to buy his dinner. He’s selling books.”
“Well, sell him a dinner if he wants it.”