A Man of Samples. Something about the men he met "On the Road"

“When do you start, Tom?”

“At midnight.”

“Well, good-by; sock it to 'em; send us in some fat orders.”

“I'll do it, or die; good-by.”

And then I sat down to think it all over. Our traveling man was off on a wedding tour, and I had agreed to take his place for this one trip. As the hour drew near for me to start, my courage proportionately sank, until I now heartily wished that I had never consented to go. What if I failed? I had been stock clerk and house salesman for three years; I had been successful; my position was a good one, and one that would grow better; there was nothing to be made by success on the road, as I had no intention of continuing there, and failure might be the means of making my place in the house less secure. What an infernal fool I was! If there had been any way under heaven for me to get out of it I would have hailed the opening with delight. I would have blessed any accident that would have been the means of sending me to bed for a week or two, and I would have taken the small-pox thankfully. But there was no release. Like an ass, as I was, I had agreed to take Mallon's trip, and I must go ahead if it made or unmade me.

I ate my supper with a heavy heart, bade my landlady and her daughters a solemn good-by, then went to the theater to forget my sorrows. At midnight I was checking my sample-trunk for Albany, and persuading the baggagemaster that 218 pounds were exactly 120. I succeeded; but it took three ten-cent cigars to do it.

The reason I call the town Albany is because that is not its name, and I may as well say here that as I write about actual incidents I don't propose to “lay myself liable” by giving the name of any town or any dealer. If I call him Smith it will naturally follow that he was not Smith.

If Albany had been a hundred or more miles away I would have taken a berth in the sleeper, but we were due there at 2 o'clock, so I dozed and nodded and swore to myself during the two hours' ride. I wanted to get there, but I dreaded it, too. Stories I had heard traveling men tell about poor beds, mean men, dirty food, and unprincipled competitors all came back to me in a distorted fashion, and if I didn't have a nightmare I must have experienced a slight touch of delirium tremens.

“How much of a town is Albany?” I asked the conductor.

“No town at all; just a crossing.”

“No hotel there?”

“Oh, yes; they call it a hotel.”

This was exactly what I expected. Probably no one would be up and I could walk around the town for the next four hours. What an idiot I was! By thunder, I would break my leg or my arm the first thing I did and get out of this foolish--

“Albany!”

What, so soon! Those were the two shortest hours I had ever known.

No lights anywhere; no one about; nothing but--

“Hotel, sir?”

Good; here was a ray of comfort. “Hotel? Well, I should say so. Where is your light?”

“Here it is.” And a lantern came around a corner as the train dashed off on its way.

“Don't mind your trunk; that will be taken care of and I'll get it in the morning. Here, Dan, lead the way.”

We walked a square or two and went into a neat appearing office. Bed? Yes, I might as well get a few hours' sleep. And I was given a very comfortable room. I lay in bed trying to recall our customer's name, and preparing my speech of introduction when--. Some one was rapping at the door. What's up? Breakfast! What, breakfast already? Why, I hadn't thought I was asleep at all.

As I looked over the register, after breakfast, dreading to start out, I asked the clerk;

“Been any gun men here lately?”

“None since last week. Layton was here from Pittsburg on the 22d.”

“Did he sell anything?”

“I think he did sell Cutter a small bill”

“How many stores are there here?”

“Three that sell guns. Are you in the gun business!”

“Yes. I am from Pittsburg.”

I hung back as long as I dared; found out all about the trains; picked up facts and fancies about the merchants; got my cards and price-book handy; stuck four revolvers (samples) in my pockets; pulled my hat down solidly on my head, and started out. And every step I took I, figuratively, kicked myself for being there, and for being a blasted fool generally. “JOHN O. JORDAN, GUNS AND REVOLVERS.”

This was the legend that attracted my attention, and toward it I took my way. I stopped at the window long enough to take a hasty inventory of its contents, and from it I sized up my man. There were some goods there that came from our store; this cheered me, I took courage, walked in, and handed Mr. Jordan my card.

“We have done some business with you,” I said, in my blandest tones, “and Mr. Mallon always spoke pleasantly of you [this was a random shot]; he has taken a wife unto himself, and I am making his trip.”

“Why the devil don't you send me the goods I ordered last time from him? Where are those British bull-dogs? Did he sell them too low, or is my credit poor?”

Phew! There it was. I must first close up an old sore before I could do anything else. I might have known it would be just so, but I was such a pig-headed fool I hadn't thought of this.

“Tell me all about it, Mr. Jordan;” and he told it, with fire in his eye. But he felt better for having told it. I knew nothing of it till now, but I took out my book and said:

“Mr. Jordan, the goods will come now. You may depend upon it. How many bull-dogs do you want?”

“I don't want any. I got some of Layton. The house can't fool me again.”

I sat down on the counter and gave him fourteen reasons for his order not having been filled (I hope some of them were true), and then I pulled out a “Pet” revolver and asked him if seventy-five cents was not mighty low for that.

He admitted that it was, but he had bought of Layton five cents lower. Then I explained wherein Layton's was ten cents poorer than mine (I hadn't seen his), and why he ought to give mine the preference. What had he paid for 32-caliber?

“One twenty-five.”