to finish
his investigation into the merits of "The Wayfarer." Something told
him not to say any thing to this person; and he had some doubts about
his purchasing.

"I will take one," said the last shoemaker, as he handed Bobby the
dollar.

"I am much obliged to you, gentlemen," said Bobby, as he closed his
valise. "When I come this way again I shall certainly call."

"Do; you have done what no other pedler ever did in this shop."

"I shall take no credit to myself. The fact is, you are men of
intelligence, and you want good books."

Bobby picked up his valise and left the shop, satisfied with those who
occupied it, and satisfied with himself.

"Eight shillings!" exclaimed he, when he got into the road. "Pretty
good hour's work, I should say."

Bobby trudged along till he came to a very large, elegant house,
evidently dwelt in by one of the nabobs of B----. Inspired by past
successes, he walked boldly up to the front door, and rang the bell.

"Is Mr. Whiting in?" asked Bobby, who had read the name on the door
plate.

"Colonel Whiting _is_ in," replied the servant, who had opened the door.

"I should like to see him for a moment, if he isn't busy."

"Walk in;" and for some reason or other the servant chuckled a great
deal as she admitted him.

She conducted him to a large, elegantly furnished parlor, where Bobby
proceeded to take out his books for the inspection of the nabob, whom
the servant promised to send to the parlor.

In a moment Colonel Whiting entered. He was a large, fat man, about
fifty years old. He looked at the little book merchant with a frown
that would have annihilated a boy less spunky than our hero. Bobby was
not a little inflated by the successes of the morning, and if Julius
Caesar or Napoleon Bonaparte had stood before him then, he would not
have flinched a hair--much less in the presence of no greater magnate
than the nabob of B----.

"Good morning, Colonel Whiting. I hope you are well this beautiful
morning," Bobby began.

I must confess I think this was a little too familiar for a boy of
thirteen to a gentleman of fifty, whom he had never seen before in his
life; but it must be remembered that Bobby had done a great deal the
week before, that on the preceding night he had slept in Chestnut
Street, and that he had just sold four copies of "The Wayfarer." He
was inclined to be smart, and some folks hate smart boys.

The nabob frowned; his cheek reddened with anger; b