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Updated: June 19, 2025
I was a book-agent for one summer, but am trying to live it down. Hoping to sell a copy of the book whose glowing description I had memorized, I called at the home of a wealthy farmer. The house was spacious and embowered in beautiful trees and shrubbery. There was a noble driveway that led up from the country road, and everything betokened great prosperity.
But the romance of it all, the element of the picturesque, the delicious, tingling sense of adventure which was inseparable from a road experience with a commanding personality like Turpin these things are all lost in your prosaic book-agent methods of our day.
"Well, I think it's real providential that you don't want to get married, Mirandy, for as like as not you'd get somebody that would spend all your money. I told'em I didn't believe you was goin' to take up with that poor stick of a book-agent." "Oh, Mis' Bemis, I s'pose I be goin' to have him!" said Miranda dejectedly.
We have become familiar with the Californians who were thrilled with terror by his burlesque of a newspaper reporter's way of telling a story, and we have heard of the Pennsylvania clergyman who sadly returned his INNOCENTS ABROAD to the book-agent with the remark that "the man who could shed tears over the tomb of Adam must be an idiot."
Maybe it's news from the sheriff." With the spasmodic tinkling of the telephone bell, the book-agent arose and made his way to the little office. As he passed Barnes, he winked broadly, and said, out of the corner of his mouth: "He'd make DeWolf Hopper look sick, wouldn't he?" Barnes glanced over his shoulder a moment later and saw the book-agent studying the register.
He carried under his arm a green toilette, which he put upon a chair; then unfastening the four corners of the toilette, he uncovered a heap of little yellow books. "Monsieur," he then said to me, "I have not the honour to be known to you. I am a book-agent, Monsieur.
No daring book-agent, no pedlar of indurated cheek, no outside barbarian had ever crossed that guarded portal, for a brass chain of impregnable strength prevented any intrusion, and only a glimpse of the old tesselated marble floor rewarded the frightened interloper. It was "No Thoroughfare" to the multitude, and the quaint visitors were either personally conducted or used latch-keys.
Nero and for Poppy, but I don't know how it would have been with you, Arvilly; a man that would kick his wife to death wouldn't be apt to brook a book-agent." "Yes," sez Josiah, "anybody that would kick Poppy Sabriny would do anything." Sez I: "It would look just as well, Josiah, for a perfessor not to talk so much about another woman besides his pardner, even if she is a stun woman."
She seemed very tired, and she looked most hopeless, pitiable, and forlorn; still there was no wavering from the task that she had set for herself, no shrinking from its pain. "I was going to meet Curtis Morgan, the book-agent man that you've asked me about before. We intended to run off to the city together. Joe knew about it; he stopped me that night."
Barnes said good night to the man and entered the Tavern a few minutes later. Putnam Jones was behind the desk and facing him was the little book-agent. "Hello, stranger," greeted the landlord. "Been sashaying in society, hey? Meet my friend Mr. Sprouse, Mr. Barnes. Sic-em, Sprouse! Give him the Dickens!" Mr. Jones laughed loudly at his own jest. Sprouse shook hands with his victim.
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