Soapy crushed the irrepressible Yorky with a look, but that young
man hit back smilingly.

"Soapy, he sells soap, ma'am. He's a sorter city salesman, I
reckon."

"I should never have guessed it. Mr. Sothern does not LOOK like a
salesman," said the girl, with a glance at his shrewd, hard,
expressionless face.

"Yes, ma'am, he's a first-class seller of soap, is Mr. Sothern,"
chuckled the cow-puncher, kicking his friends gayly under the
table.

"You can see I never sold HIM any, Miss Messiter," came back
Soapy, sorrowfully.

All this was Greek to the young lady from Kalamazoo. How was she
to know that Mr. Sothern had vended his soap in small cubes on
street corners, and that he wrapped bank notes of various
denominations in the bars, which same were retailed to eager
customers for the small sum of fifty cents, after a guarantee
that the soap was good? His customers rarely patronized him
twice; and frequently they used bad language because the soap
wrapping was not as valuable as they had expected. This was
manifestly unfair, for Mr. Sothern, who made no claims to
philanthropy, often warned them that the soap should be bought on
its merits, and not with an eye single to the premium that might
or might not accompany the package.