Two New England shillings is undoubtedly a very small sum of money; but Bobby had made two shillings, and he would not have considered himself more fortunate if some unknown relative had left him a fortune.  It gave him confidence in his powers, and as he walked away from the house, he reviewed the circumstances of his first sale.

The old lady had told him at first she did not wish to buy a book, and, moreover, had spoken rather contemptuously of the craft to which he had now the honor to belong.  He gave himself the credit of having conquered the old lady’s prejudices.  He had sold her a book in spite of her evident intention not to purchase.  In short, he had, as we have before said, won a glorious victory, and he congratulated himself accordingly.

But it was of no use to waste time in useless self-glorification, and Bobby turned from the past to the future.  There were forty-nine more books to be sold, so that the future was forty-nine-times as big as the past.

He saw a shoemaker’s shop ahead of him; and he was debating with himself whether he should enter and offer his books for sale.  It would do no harm, though he had but slight expectations of doing any thing.

There were three men at work in the shop—­one of them a middle-aged man, the other two young men.  They looked like persons of intelligence, and as soon as Bobby saw them his hopes grew stronger.

“Can I sell you any books to-day?” asked the little merchant, as he crossed the threshold.

“Well, I don’t know; that depends upon how smart you are,” replied the eldest of the men.  “It takes a pretty smart fellow to sell any thing in this shop.”

“Then I hope to sell each of you a book,” added Bobby, laughing at the badinage of the shoemaker.

Opening his valise he took out three copies of his book, and politely handed one to each of the men.

“It isn’t every book pedler that comes along who offers you such a work as that.  ‘The Wayfarer’ is decidedly the book of the season.”

“You don’t say so!” said the oldest shoemaker, with a laugh.  “Every pedler that comes along uses those words, precisely.”

“Do they?  They steal my thunder then.”

“You are an old one.”

“Only thirteen.  I was born where they don’t fasten the door with a boiled carrot.”

“What do they fasten them with?”

“They don’t fasten them at all.”

“There are no book pedlers round there, then;” and all the shoemakers laughed heartily at this smart sally.

“No; they are all shoemakers in our town.”

“You can take my hat, boy.”

“You will want it to put your head in; but I will take one dollar for that book instead.”

The man laughed, took out his wallet, and handed Bobby the dollar, probably quite as much because he had a high appreciation of his smartness, as from any desire to possess the book.