end of one of Stumpton's cigars harpooned on the
little blade of his jackknife, and was busy pumping the last drop of
comfort out of it. I never see a man who wanted to get his money's wuth
more'n Jonadab, I give you my word, I expected to see him swaller that
cigar remnant every minute.

And all to once he gives a gurgle in his throat.

"Take a drink of water," says I, scared like.

"Well, by time!" says he, pointing.

A feller had just turned the corner of the house and was heading up in
our direction. He was a thin, lengthy craft, with more'n the average
amount of wrists sticking out of his sleeves, and with long black hair
trimmed aft behind his ears and curling on the back of his neck. He
had high cheek bones and kind of sunk-in black eyes, and altogether he
looked like "Dr. Macgoozleum, the Celebrated Blackfoot Medicine Man."
If he'd hollered: "Sagwa Bitters, only one dollar a bottle!" I wouldn't
have been surprised.

But his clothes--don't say a word! His coat was long and buttoned up
tight, so's you couldn't tell whether he had a vest on or not--though
'twas a safe bet he hadn't--and it and his pants was made of the loudest
kind of black-and-white checks. No nice quiet pepper-and-salt, you
understand, but the checkerboard kind, the oilcloth kind, the kind that
looks like the marble floor in the Boston post-office. They was pretty
tolerable seedy, and so was his hat. Oh, he was a last year's bird's
nest NOW, but when them clothes was fresh--whew! the northern lights and
a rainbow mixed wouldn't have been more'n a cloudy day 'longside of him.

He run up to the piazza like a clipper coming into port, and he sweeps
off that rusty hat and hails us grand and easy.

"Good-morning, gentlemen," says he.

"We don't want none," says Jonadab, decided.

The feller looked surprised. "I beg your pardon," says he. "You don't
want any--what?"

"We don't want any 'Life of King Solomon' nor 'The World's Big
Classifyers.' And we don't want to buy any patent paint, nor sewing
machines, nor clothes washers, nor climbing evergreen roses, nor
rheumatiz salve. And we don't want our pictures painted, neither."

Jonadab was getting excited. Nothing riles him wuss than a peddler,
unless it's a woman selling tickets to a church fair. The feller swelled
up until I thought the top button on that thunderstorm coat would drag
anchor, sure.

"You are mistaken," says he. "I have called to see Mr. Peter Brown; he
is--er--a relative