“Won’t you take one?” asked Bobby, appealing to another of the men, who was apparently not more than twenty-four years of age.

“No; I can’t read,” replied he, roguishly.

“Let your wife read it to you then.”

“My wife?”

“Certainly; she knows how to read, I will warrant.”

“How do you know I have got a wife?”

“O, well, a fellow as good looking and good natured as you are could not have resisted till this time.”

“Has you, Tom,” added the oldest shoemaker.

“I cave in;” and he handed over the dollar, and laid the book upon his bench.

Bobby looked at the third man with some interest.  He had said nothing, and scarcely heeded the fun which was passing between the little merchant and his companions.  He was apparently absorbed in his examination of the book.  He was a different kind of person from the others, and Bobby’s instinctive knowledge of human nature assured him that he was not to be gained by flattery or by smart sayings; so he placed himself in front of him, and patiently waited in silence for him to complete his examination.

“You will find that he is a hard one,” put in one of the others.

Bobby made no reply, and the two men who had bought books resumed their work.  For five minutes our hero stood waiting for the man 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——.