“John Topoff” was the name over the door, so I went in, carefully noticing the stock, the way it was arranged, and the amount, in order to get some idea of the kind of man the owner was.
“Is Mr. Topoff in?” I asked a young man who was blacking stoves and who I was sure was not the man I wanted.
“Naw,” he said, as he brushed away.
“Will he be in soon?”
“Naw, he's dead. There's Mr. Tucker, he's the boss.”
The young man spoke as if answering the questions about Mr. Topoff had become a burden to him, and if that honest hardware man had been dead long I didn't blame the boy for getting tired of him.
Mr. Tucker had been studiously keeping his back toward me, as if I was to expect no encouragement from him, but he turned when I spoke his name and I introduced myself.
“Don't need anything in your line,” said he, as if he wished I would accept that as a final verdict and get out.
What would you have done, respected reader, if you had been in my place? I would gladly have said “good-day,” and gone at once if it were not for the fact that my present business was to get orders, and the only way to secure them was to work for them. So I ignored Mr. Tucker's ill-timed remark and proceeded to be sociable.
I explained as pleasantly as I could why it was our house was sending out a new man. I got him interested enough to ask a question or two, which was a point gained, and finally I came round to his stock, but I carefully ignored guns and talked of nails; something I knew nothing about.