"Well, send me a dozen."

I entered the order. Was there anything else?

"What is the best you will do on bull-dogs?"

"$2.80 is bottom; but you say you have ordered them?"

"Oh, that is one of Tom's lies; you may send us 50."

We went through the list, and the old man gave me a very nice order;
then followed me to the door with his arm in mine, and sent me off as
if he was bidding good-by to a son. I forgave him all his lies, and
feel kindly toward him to this day.

I ran into a hardware store with my samples of cutlery, hoping to do
something in a line where Blissam could not meet me, but the first man
I saw was Blissam, leaning over the show-case, as if entirely at home,
and in full possession of the stock. He introduced me to Mr. Thompson
as if we had been traveling companions for life, but added to me,
"Thompson does not do much in our line, except caps and cartridges,
and I've just fixed him up."

I felt like taking him by the nape of the neck and dropping him down
the sewer, but I turned to Mr. Thompson and talked cutlery. I told him
I had a line of No. 1 goods at low prices, every blade warranted, and
put up in extra nice style for retailers.

"Whose make?" he asked.