The Book Agent Beats the Bandit.Brown, Jones and Robinson, three of as good fellows as ever melted the heart of a country trader to the merry music of the pliant chin, sat one evening of last week in the smoking compartment of a chair car on the R. and T. H. Western Railroad. With them was a tall, thin, dyspeptic man with sandy hair, dressed in a rusty suit of black. Nature had endowed him with long legs, and his tailor with short pants. His coat collar was rich enough in accumulated grease to keep a soap factory going for a month. His mouth was of brass, and his cheek as hard as last year’s cider. He was a book agent. Already had he gobbled up the drummers for a Life of Christ and Pocket Encyclopedia of 215 numbers, when suddenly a realJesse-James-like train bandit opened the door and stood, pistol in hand, before the quartet.Brown’s soul sank down into the heels of his boots. Beads of perspiration big as snow balls stood on Jones’ classic brow, while his hair lifted his hat two solid inches from the crown of his head. Robinson murmured the first verse of “Ever of Thee I’m Fondly Dreaming,” and thought he was praying. But the book agent bounded from his seat with a “How do, stranger? Delighted to see you. Do let me show you my superb ‘History of Boone County,’ a perfect bonanza of domestic peace and happiness to every householder who is fortunate enough to possess one. Three hundred pages of elegant letter press, printed on toned paper and embellished with fine steel engravings and an official map of the State. A carefully compiled, correct topographical and historical——”“Shut up!” roared the bandit.“Shut up? You bet it will, and fastens itself with a double-action brass clasp—my own invention—and from its simplicity of design and beauty of construction worth half the price of the book. Given away, sir; literally given away, for $3 in boards or $4.50 in morocco with beveled edges.”“If yer say——”“I do say it, sir. Look at this exquisite title page with a vignette portrait of the gifted author. Here you see a genealogical abstract chart in which you can write the names of your illustrious ancestors and beloved family—births, marriages, deaths and——”“Stop!” shrieked the bandit, as the agent grasped him by the buttonhole.“You may well say ‘stop,’ sir; I’ve said enough to make you ache to possess this beautiful volume, but I haven’t begun to——”“Sit down!” the robber roared in a voice that made the puffs of the engine sound like the sighs of a sick zephyr, and loosened all the joints of Jones’s limbs.“Biographical sketches of eminent men, glowing obituary, with an original poem on death, agricultural statistics, tables of mortality, valuable notes on immigration, trade reports, all the geological——”“Lemme go, or I’ll blow the roof of yer head off,” shrieked the robber, as he wrested himself from the agent’s grasp and dropped off the rear car into the gathering gloom of the coming night.Then Robinson drew from his pocket his faithful revolver and looked big. Jones rolled his sleeves up and asked where the villain was gone to. Brown fished from under the spittoon a roll of bills and hoped they didn’t think he had been scared. But the agent sank wearily to his seat, and for the first time in all that long journey was silent for nearly four consecutive minutes.—Evansville Argus.
The Book Agent Beats the Bandit.Brown, Jones and Robinson, three of as good fellows as ever melted the heart of a country trader to the merry music of the pliant chin, sat one evening of last week in the smoking compartment of a chair car on the R. and T. H. Western Railroad. With them was a tall, thin, dyspeptic man with sandy hair, dressed in a rusty suit of black. Nature had endowed him with long legs, and his tailor with short pants. His coat collar was rich enough in accumulated grease to keep a soap factory going for a month. His mouth was of brass, and his cheek as hard as last year’s cider. He was a book agent. Already had he gobbled up the drummers for a Life of Christ and Pocket Encyclopedia of 215 numbers, when suddenly a realJesse-James-like train bandit opened the door and stood, pistol in hand, before the quartet.Brown’s soul sank down into the heels of his boots. Beads of perspiration big as snow balls stood on Jones’ classic brow, while his hair lifted his hat two solid inches from the crown of his head. Robinson murmured the first verse of “Ever of Thee I’m Fondly Dreaming,” and thought he was praying. But the book agent bounded from his seat with a “How do, stranger? Delighted to see you. Do let me show you my superb ‘History of Boone County,’ a perfect bonanza of domestic peace and happiness to every householder who is fortunate enough to possess one. Three hundred pages of elegant letter press, printed on toned paper and embellished with fine steel engravings and an official map of the State. A carefully compiled, correct topographical and historical——”“Shut up!” roared the bandit.“Shut up? You bet it will, and fastens itself with a double-action brass clasp—my own invention—and from its simplicity of design and beauty of construction worth half the price of the book. Given away, sir; literally given away, for $3 in boards or $4.50 in morocco with beveled edges.”“If yer say——”“I do say it, sir. Look at this exquisite title page with a vignette portrait of the gifted author. Here you see a genealogical abstract chart in which you can write the names of your illustrious ancestors and beloved family—births, marriages, deaths and——”“Stop!” shrieked the bandit, as the agent grasped him by the buttonhole.“You may well say ‘stop,’ sir; I’ve said enough to make you ache to possess this beautiful volume, but I haven’t begun to——”“Sit down!” the robber roared in a voice that made the puffs of the engine sound like the sighs of a sick zephyr, and loosened all the joints of Jones’s limbs.“Biographical sketches of eminent men, glowing obituary, with an original poem on death, agricultural statistics, tables of mortality, valuable notes on immigration, trade reports, all the geological——”“Lemme go, or I’ll blow the roof of yer head off,” shrieked the robber, as he wrested himself from the agent’s grasp and dropped off the rear car into the gathering gloom of the coming night.Then Robinson drew from his pocket his faithful revolver and looked big. Jones rolled his sleeves up and asked where the villain was gone to. Brown fished from under the spittoon a roll of bills and hoped they didn’t think he had been scared. But the agent sank wearily to his seat, and for the first time in all that long journey was silent for nearly four consecutive minutes.—Evansville Argus.
Brown, Jones and Robinson, three of as good fellows as ever melted the heart of a country trader to the merry music of the pliant chin, sat one evening of last week in the smoking compartment of a chair car on the R. and T. H. Western Railroad. With them was a tall, thin, dyspeptic man with sandy hair, dressed in a rusty suit of black. Nature had endowed him with long legs, and his tailor with short pants. His coat collar was rich enough in accumulated grease to keep a soap factory going for a month. His mouth was of brass, and his cheek as hard as last year’s cider. He was a book agent. Already had he gobbled up the drummers for a Life of Christ and Pocket Encyclopedia of 215 numbers, when suddenly a realJesse-James-like train bandit opened the door and stood, pistol in hand, before the quartet.
Brown’s soul sank down into the heels of his boots. Beads of perspiration big as snow balls stood on Jones’ classic brow, while his hair lifted his hat two solid inches from the crown of his head. Robinson murmured the first verse of “Ever of Thee I’m Fondly Dreaming,” and thought he was praying. But the book agent bounded from his seat with a “How do, stranger? Delighted to see you. Do let me show you my superb ‘History of Boone County,’ a perfect bonanza of domestic peace and happiness to every householder who is fortunate enough to possess one. Three hundred pages of elegant letter press, printed on toned paper and embellished with fine steel engravings and an official map of the State. A carefully compiled, correct topographical and historical——”
“Shut up!” roared the bandit.
“Shut up? You bet it will, and fastens itself with a double-action brass clasp—my own invention—and from its simplicity of design and beauty of construction worth half the price of the book. Given away, sir; literally given away, for $3 in boards or $4.50 in morocco with beveled edges.”
“If yer say——”
“I do say it, sir. Look at this exquisite title page with a vignette portrait of the gifted author. Here you see a genealogical abstract chart in which you can write the names of your illustrious ancestors and beloved family—births, marriages, deaths and——”
“Stop!” shrieked the bandit, as the agent grasped him by the buttonhole.
“You may well say ‘stop,’ sir; I’ve said enough to make you ache to possess this beautiful volume, but I haven’t begun to——”
“Sit down!” the robber roared in a voice that made the puffs of the engine sound like the sighs of a sick zephyr, and loosened all the joints of Jones’s limbs.
“Biographical sketches of eminent men, glowing obituary, with an original poem on death, agricultural statistics, tables of mortality, valuable notes on immigration, trade reports, all the geological——”
“Lemme go, or I’ll blow the roof of yer head off,” shrieked the robber, as he wrested himself from the agent’s grasp and dropped off the rear car into the gathering gloom of the coming night.
Then Robinson drew from his pocket his faithful revolver and looked big. Jones rolled his sleeves up and asked where the villain was gone to. Brown fished from under the spittoon a roll of bills and hoped they didn’t think he had been scared. But the agent sank wearily to his seat, and for the first time in all that long journey was silent for nearly four consecutive minutes.
—Evansville Argus.