dderless air ship tossed by the waves of the relentless ocean. It
contains a fact for every day in the year, for every moment of life, any
one of which is worth the price of the book many times over. This book,"
he said--and then his eyes, which had been gazing far into the sky over
Miss Sally's house, returned to the eyes of Mrs. Smith--"I am going to
sell Mr. Skinner a copy of this book."

In spite of her disappointment in him, Mrs. Smith, the authoress, felt
a thrill of pleasure in the discovery of such an admirable type--a book
agent who could see in the midst of love, courtship, conspiracy and
trouble only his book and a chance to sell it. But she was deeply
disappointed.

"Then you desert Miss Sally," she repeated sadly.

"Mrs. Smith." Said Eliph', reaching into his pocket and laying a handful
of thick greasy manila envelopes in her lap, "these are my bank
books. Six, containing the sum of seventeen thousand four hundred and
eighty-two dollars and forty-six cents, and all this I lay at
Miss Sally's feet if I do not succeed in selling a copy of Jarby's
Encyclopedia this afternoon. If sold, the matter is settled."

When Eliph' reached the business part of Main Street he turned into
Skinner's butcher shop and halted at the counter. The butcher was at
work in the back room, and he put his head out and, seeing who had
called, shook it.

"No books," he said shortly. "I never buy books. I didn't buy them Sir
Walter Scotts even. No books."

Eliph' coughed his deprecatory little cough and walked behind the
counter and to the door of the back room.

"So I understood," he said. "I heard at Franklin that you didn't buy
books; it was mentioned to me that I would be wasting my time in calling
on you. They said you was known all over the State as not buying books,
and many admired your self-restraint in not buying. They said it was
wonderful. That's why I never called on you to buy. But I didn't come to
sell you a book. I wanted to ask if you knew William Rossiter?"

"William Rossiter?" asked Skinner, perplexed, coming out of the back
room. "Who's William Rossiter?"

Eliph' laid his book on the chopping block.

"William Rossiter, agent," he said. "He was here once. He was the man
that stopped with Miss Sally Briggs a while. I thought maybe you knew
him. He's dead. I thought maybe you'd be interested to know it."

A light dawned on the butcher. William Rossiter must have been the man
that left the lung-testers at Mis