“I want the kind with U.S. on the end.”
“What good is that?”
“Good to go. I like that kind. Have you got them?”
“I don't know; yes; no, they ain't either! They're U.M.C.”
“Don't want 'em!”
Now I was temporarily selling the U.S. cartridge, so I made a note of what the man said, to be used on Tucker, but I took up the conversation and convinced the customer that the U.M.C. make of cartridges was good; he finally bought a box and went off apparently satisfied.
Just then Tucker came in.
I made some laughing allusion to pig-headed customers, and the clerk at once opened up on the “fool” who thought one cartridge was better than another. When the young man was back at his stove I started out to sell Tucker a bill. He was backward about buying; didn't know our house; always bought of Simmons; did not like to have so many bills; always got favors from Simmons, and despised our city on general principles.
I agreed with him on every point, but (Oh! these “buts”) I also wanted an order. I took out my bull-dog revolver that was selling at $2.85; he had none like it in stock; it was the leading pistol, retailing readily at $4 to $5, according to locality. “I want to send you a few of these at a special net price,” said I; “the regular price is $3; I will sell you at $2.85.” I said this as if I was making him a present of a gold watch. “I wouldn't have the d—n things as a gift,” said he.