He was selling tacks and turnips in a gloomy corner store, and he never
washed his windows and he never swept the floor, and he let the cobwebs
gather on the ceiling and the walls, and he let his whiskers flourish
till they brushed his overalls. So his customers forsook him--for his
patrons were not chumps--and the sheriff came and got him and that
merchant bumped the bumps.
He was selling hens and hammocks, as he'd done since days of youth, and
he queered himself with many, for he never told the truth. Oh, he
thought it rather cunning if he sold a rooster old as a young and
tender pullet through the artful lies he told; and he'd sell a shoddy
hammock as a thing of silken thread, and the customer would bust it and
fall out upon his head; so his customers forsook him, and he sadly
watched them flit, and the sheriff came and got him, and that merchant
hit the grit.
He was selling shoes and sugar--sugar from the sunny South--and he'd
roast the opposition when he should have shut his mouth. He would
stand and rant and rumble by the hour of Mr. Tweet, who was selling
shoes and sugar in the shack across the street; and he'd vow all kinds
of vengeance, and he'd tell all kinds of tales, till his wearied
patrons sometimes rose and smote him with his scales; for they cared
about his troubles and his sorrows not three whoops, and the sheriff
came and got him, and that merchant looped the loops.
He was selling books and beeswax, and his store was neat and clean, and
the place was bright and cheerful, and the atmosphere serene. He was
tidy in his person, and his clerks were much the same, and no precious
time was wasted, in the tiresome knocking game. And the customer who
entered was with courtesy received, and he felt quite proud and happy
when of cash he was relieved. And the merchant's word was golden, what
he said was always true, and he sold no moldy beeswax, saying it was
good as new. And his trade kept on increasing till his bank account
was fat, and the sheriff, when he met him, always bowed and tipped his
hat.