"Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped on the train. "Book-agent, hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."
"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants: he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."
"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. How much is it?"
"Two dollars, for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book-agent, as he reached for the money and passed the book out of the car-window.
Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance.
"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens,—"just got it, and that's all."
"Got what?" yelled Watson.
"Why, I got the book,—'Early Christian Martyrs,'—and paid—"
"By—the—great—guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hands to his brow and swooned right in the middle of the street.