The next day was Sunday, October sixth. I well remember the date.
I woke up as chipper as any Robert W. Chambers heroine. All my
doubts and depressions of the evening before had fled, and I was
single-heartedly delighted with the world and everything in it. The
hotel was a poor place, but it would have taken more than that to
mar my composure. I had a bitterly cold bath in a real country tin
tub, and then eggs and pancakes for breakfast. At the table was
a drummer who sold lightning rods, and several other travelling
salesmen. I'm afraid my conversation was consciously modelled along
the line of what the Professor would have said if he had been there,
but at any rate I got along swimmingly. The travelling men, after a
moment or two of embarrassed diffidence, treated me quite as one of
themselves and asked me about my "line" with interest. I described
what I was doing and they all said they envied me my freedom to come
and go independently of trains. We talked cheerfully for a long
time, and almost without intending to, I started preaching about
books. In the end they insisted on my showing them Parnassus. We
all went out to the stable, where the van was quartered, and they
browsed over the shelves. Before I knew it I had sold five dollars'
worth, although I had decided not to do any business at all on
Sunday. But I couldn't refuse to sell them the stuff as they all
seemed so keen on getting something really good to read. One man
kept on talking about Harold Bell Wright, but I had to admit that
I hadn't heard of him. Evidently the Professor hadn't stocked any
of his works. I was tickled to see that after all little Redbeard
didn't know _everything_ about literature.
After that I debated whether to go to church or to write letters.
Finally I decided in favour of the letters. First I tackled Andrew.
I wrote:
The Moose Hotel, Bath,
Sunday morning.