There it was. The man who wants to sell out is one of the most
numerous men that exist. But it was my business then, and it has
always been my business since, to listen sympathetically to all such
tales, and to promise to have an eye out for any possible purchaser.

"We don't do much in your line," he continued, "because men don't come
to a stove store to buy revolvers, but if I don't sell out I'm going
to do some wholesaling, and see if I can't eventually work up into
wholesale exclusively."

This was a much more promising opening for me, and I led his fancy
over a bed of roses to the not distant day when he might put up that
fraudulent sign--"No goods at retail." And I was reminded of a very
cheap pistol that we had that I would sell him at 52 cents, which he
could job to any country dealer at 75 cents. I don't know if it was
the beer or my eloquence, but I sold him fifty then and there, and
added some other goods to the sale, so that my evening was not wholly
wasted.

I saw him not long ago. He is still retailing at the old stand and
still grumbling about his partner, but we have been the best of
friends since our first evening together.

As I ate my breakfast the next morning I overheard two men at my table
talk about trade, and I quietly listened.

"It only takes a little thing to help out a line of goods or to kill
them," said one. "Nimick & Brittan got out that burglar-proof
attachment on their locks and just kept themselves going by it."