Tom and Harry, keeping most of their belongings
at camp, had only suit cases to carry.
"Gentlemen, I think you are making a mistake," began Mr. Ashby, as he
met the salesmen in the lobby near the clerk's desk.
"We made a mistake in coming here," retorted the leader of the salesmen,
pleasantly as to tone, "but we're rectifying it now. Are our bills
ready?"
The proprietor went behind the desk to make change, while the clerk
receipted seven bills. Ashby's hands shook as he manipulated the money.
"Dobson," he said, in a low tone to one of the drummers, "I had intended
ordering a ton of hams from you. Now, of course, I can't--"
"Quite right," nodded Mr. Dobson cheerfully. "You couldn't get them
from our house at four times the market price. We wouldn't want our
brand served here."
The last bill was paid. Proprietor Ashby stiffened, his backbone,
trying to look game.
"Gentlemen," he inquired, "where are you going from here? Won't you let
me call the 'bus to take you?"
"Never mind the, 'bus, Ash," smilingly replied the leader of the
drummers, a man named Pritchard.
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