About six o’clock he entered the house of a mechanic, just as the family were sitting down to tea.  He recommended his book with so much energy that the wife of the mechanic took a fancy to him, and not only purchased one, but invited him to tea.  Bobby accepted the invitation, and in the course of the meal, the good lady drew from him the details of his history, which he very modestly related, for though he sometimes fancied himself a man, he was not the boy to boast of his exploits.  His host was so much pleased with him, that he begged him to spend the night with them.  Bobby had been thinking how and where he should spend the night, and the matter had given him no little concern.  He did not wish to go to the hotel, for it looked like a very smart house, and he reasoned that he should have to pay pretty roundly for accommodations there.  These high prices would eat up his profits, and he seriously deliberated whether it would not be better for him to sleep under a tree than pay fifty cents for a lodging.

If I had been there I should have told him that a man loses nothing in the long run by taking good care of himself.  He must eat well and sleep well, in order to do well and be well.  But I suppose Bobby would have told me that it was of no use to pay a quarter extra for sleeping on a gilded bedstead, since the room would be so dark he could not see the gilt even if he wished to do so.  I could not have said any thing to such a powerful argument; so I am very glad the mechanic’s wife set the matter at rest by offering him a bed in her house.

He spent a very pleasant evening with the family, who made him feel entirely at home, they were so kind and so plain spoken.  Before he went to bed, he entered under the book account, “By twenty-six Wayfarers, sold this day, $26.00.”

He had done a big day’s work, much bigger than he could hope to do again.  He had sold more than one half of his whole stock, and at this rate he should be out of books the next day.  At first he thought he would send for another lot; but he could not judge yet what his average daily sales would be, and finally concluded not to do so.  What he had might last till Friday or Saturday.  He intended to go home on the latter day, and he could bring them with him on his return without expense.  This was considerable of an argument for a boy to manage; but Bobby was satisfied with it, and went to sleep, wondering what his mother, Squire Lee, and Annie were thinking of about that time.

After breakfast the next morning he resumed his travels.  He was as enthusiastic as ever, and pressed “The Wayfarer” with so much earnestness that he sold a book in nearly every house he visited.  People seemed to be more interested in the little merchant than in his stock, and taking advantage of this kind feeling towards him, he appealed to them with so much eloquence that few could resist it.

The result of the day’s sales was fifteen copies, which Bobby entered in the book account with the most intense satisfaction.  He had outdone the boy who had passed through Riverdale, but he had little hope that the harvest would always be so abundant.