"Huh?" I says—on account of the pit.
"I travel," says he, "for the human race. But they don't know it."
"Sure," I says, when I had it swallowed, "you got to sell to everybody, I know that. But what do you sell 'em?"
He shook his head.
"I don't sell it," he says. "They won't buy it. I shall always be a philanthropist. The commodity," says he, "is books."
"Oh!" I says. "A book agent! I'd have taken you for a regular salesman."
"I tell you I don't sell 'em," he says. "Nobody will buy. I just write 'em."
I put down my other peach and looked at him.
"An author?" I says. "You?"
"Thank you," says he, "for believing me. Nobody else will. Now don't let's talk about that. Do you mind telling me something about yourself?"