years ago, and is to-day. He's a first-rate man; solid, reliable,
competent; he seems to be content, and he used to seem content. But
how, in the name of H. C. Wilcox, can a man be so satisfied with
himself? I don't understand it. I should want to be going up or down;
I wouldn't be a setting hen all my life."

"You have seen many houses go up and down," I said.

"Well, I have. I remember a Detroit concern that in '65 had a nice,
small trade, but each year seemed to be doing better, until I used to
think they were about the sharpest set on my route. Business was
always good, and the goose was away up. One of the partners built the
nicest house in the city, and lived like a baron. But, by hokey, he's
on the road selling goods to-day, and another man lives in his nice
house."

"What brings them down?"

"Big head, almost altogether. They get the big head; they fancy they
are all Claflins or Stewarts, and they suddenly drop through a hole.
It's almighty hard to be successful and not take to worshiping
yourself. And the younger men fall into the trap easier than the old
ones do or did. Take such a man as Wm. Bingham, of Cleveland; I don't
see any change in him in twenty years. Yet the house has grown to be a
very large and very successful one. Did you ever know Tennis?"

"No, I did not."

"In '65, Tennis & Son seemed to be the booming firm in hardware there.
They were rich and had a big trade. The old man died, the boys ran