Every Man his Own Hero

(I)

The familiar story told about himself by the Commercial
Traveller who sold goods to the man who was regarded as
impossible.

"What," they said, "you're getting off at Midgeville?
You're going to give the Jones Hardware Company a try,
eh?"--and then they all started laughing and giving me
the merry ha! ha! Well, I just got my grip packed and
didn't say a thing and when the train slowed up for
Midgeville, out I slid. "Give my love to old man Jones,"
one of the boys called after me, "and get yourself a
couple of porous plasters and a pair of splints before
you tackle him!"--and then they all gave me the ha! ha!
again, out of the window as the train pulled out.

Well, I walked uptown from the station to the Jones
Hardware Company. "Is Mr. Jones in the office?" I asked
of one of the young fellers behind the counter. "He's in
the office," he says, "all right, but I guess you can't
see him," he says--and he looked at my grip. "What name
shall I say?" says he. "Don't say any name at all," I
says. "Just open the door and let me in."

Well, there was old man Jones sitting scowling over his
desk, biting his pen in that way he has. He looked up
when I came in. "See here, young man," he says, "you
can't sell me any hardware," he says. "Mr. Jones," I
says, "I don't _want_ to sell you any hardware. I'm not
_here_ to sell you any hardware. I know," I says, "as
well as you do," I says, "that I couldn't sell any hardware
if I tried to. But," I says, "I guess it don't do any
harm to open up this sample case, and show you some
hardware," I says. "Young man," says he, "if you start
opening up that sample case in here, you'll lose your
time, that's all"--and he turned off sort of sideways
and began looking over some letters.

"That's _all right_, Mr. Jones," I says. "That's _all
right_. I'm _here_ to lose my time. But I'm not going
out of this room till you take a look anyway at some of
this new cutlery I'm carrying."

So open I throws my sample case right across the end of
his desk. "Look at that knife," I says, "Mr. Jones. Just
look at it: clear Sheffield at three-thirty the dozen
and they're a knife that will last till you wear the haft
off it." "Oh, pshaw," he growled, "I don't want no knives;
there's nothing in knives--"

Well I _knew_ he didn't want knives, see? I _knew_ it.
But the way I opened up the sample case it showed up,
just by accident so to speak, a box of those new electric