CHAPTER II.


When Mr. Jordan gave me the order for six "bull-dog" revolvers, I felt
that I had made a conquest; I went carefully through my list, adding
something here and there, until I had made a very pretty bill with
him. So, although he met me as if he wanted to punch me in the head,
we parted on the best of terms. Where should I go next? A sign farther
down the street said "Hardware," so I started down that way.

A man who carries a mixed stock is easier to sell goods to than is the
man who makes a specialty of one line. In the house we always had a
closer price for the dealer who made guns a specialty than for the
hardware man who kept a few guns and revolvers as a small branch of
his stock.

"John Topoff" was the name over the door, so I went in, carefully
noticing the stock, the way it was arranged, and the amount, in order
to get some idea of the kind of man the owner was.

"Is Mr. Topoff in?" I asked a young man who was blacking stoves and
who I was sure was not the man I wanted.

"Naw," he said, as he brushed away.

"Will he be in soon?"

"Naw, he's dead. There's Mr. Tucker, he's the boss."

The young man spoke as if answering the questions about Mr. Topoff had