I left Mr. Bell, and went a square farther down the street to a
hardware store, where our house had occasionally done some business. I
was very familiar with the firm's name, and had heard a great many
stories of Mr. Harris, the buyer. There was an air of push and
prosperity in the store, and when I inquired for the buyer I was shown
into the office. There were two men at the desks, and a man lying on a
lounge; the latter proved to be the man I wanted.

"I don't feel like doing any business just now," said he, "come in
after dinner."

This was pleasanter than to be told not to come in at all, so I made
another call on the street, but did no business. As I took my place at
the dinner table a man opposite me (we two were alone) nodded, and
asked if I was selling hardware, saying he had seen me come out of Mr.
Bell's. I told him my business, and he gave me his card: Tibbals, of
Meriden, Conn. I've seen many handsomer men than Tibbals, but I have
not often met one who was better company. He had been on the road, so
he said, for twenty years, selling plated ware, and I expect "Rogers
Bro., 1847," was tattooed all over him.

"Have you sold Harris?" he asked.

"No, he told me to come in after dinner."

"What a lazy fellow he is! That man is the laziest one on my route. I
took his order this morning while he lay on a lounge. I asked him if
he was sick, and he said he was not, but he was tired. Great Scott!
just think of a man getting tired doing nothing."