he moment; and at once I began to think
of the possibilities of the situation. What a thing it was have so many
unexpected and interesting situations developing! So I nodded my head
and tapped my foot, and blew into my whistle all the more energetically.
I knew my visitor could not possibly keep away. And he could not;
presently he came nearer and said:

"What are you doing, neighbour?"

I continued a moment with my playing, but commanded him with my eye.

Oh, I assure you I assumed all the airs of a virtuoso. When I had
finished my tune I removed my whistle deliberately and wiped my lips.

"Why, enjoying myself," I replied with greatest good humour. "What are
you doing?"

"Why," he said, "watching you enjoy yourself. I heard you playing as I
passed in the road, and couldn't imagine what it could be."

I told him I thought it might still be difficult, having heard me near
at hand, to imagine what it could be--and thus, tossing the ball of
good-humoured repartee back and forth, we walked down to the road
together. He had a quiet old horse and a curious top buggy with the
unmistakable box of an agent or peddler built on behind.

"My name," he said, "is Canfield. I fight dust."

"And mine," I said, "is Grayson. I whistle."

I discovered that he was an agent for brushes, and he opened his box
and showed me the greatest assortment of big and little brushes: bristle
brushes, broom brushes, yarn brushes, wire brushes, brushes for man and
brushes for beast, brushes of every conceivable size and shape that ever
I saw in all my life. He had out one of his especial pets--he called
it his "leader"--and feeling it familiarly in his hand he instinctively
began the jargon of well-handled and voice-worn phrases which went with
that particular brush. It was just as though some one had touched a
button and had started him going. It was amazing to me that any one
in the world should be so much interested in mere brushes--until he
actually began to make me feel that brushes were as interesting as
anything else!

What a strange, little, dried-up old fellow he was, with his balls
of muttonchop sidewhiskers, his thick eyebrows, and his lively blue
eyes!--a man evidently not readily turned aside by rebuffs. He had
already shown that his wit as a talker had been sharpened by long
and varied contact with a world of reluctant purchasers. I was really
curious to know more of him, so I said finally:

"See here, Mr. Canfield, it's just