Billwock was pretty generally known in the gun trade; first for being mighty slow pay, and second for the fact that they had a baby at his shop regularly every year or oftener, and the store was used as nursery and play-ground. Traveling men had to see the last baby and count all the old ones, and according as they praised them did old Billwock buy liberally or not. The head of the house had said to me, “Don't push goods on Billwock; he owes us enough already. If you squeeze a good payment out of him you can sell him a small bill.” This kind of talk is all good enough, so far as it goes; but the poor devil on the road often finds he can't get a cent, neither can he sell any goods. The men at home think all he need do is to say, “Here I am; what is it you want?” and then copy the order as fast as he can write. But the men who order that way are the kind who never intend to pay for what they order. I thought the matter of Billwock's account all over by the time I found his store. It was dimly lighted, but I saw a man and woman at the rear, and went in. A mussy and dirty looking man came forward to meet me, but when he had walked a little way he evidently concluded that I was a drummer, and that I might walk the rest of the way to him. “Is this Mr. Billwock?” I asked. “Yes.” I told him who I was, but he seemed little interested. I started to ask about his business, but some one sang out my name and said, “Don't go talking business out there; come back and see the baby.” Blissam, by thunder! I went back and found him beside Mrs. Billwock, with a young one on his knee, and as much at home as if he was the uncle of all concerned. I made up my mind that Blissam couldn't be any more sociable than I could, and I set out to do my prettiest. About 9 o'clock we both went out together, and, perhaps naturally, drifted to the smoking room of his hotel. He was an old hand on the road, and full of stories of his own and others' experience. I tried to be a good listener. “There are some mighty queer men in the trade,” said he, as he puffed his cigar. “I took an order from a man in Indiana, not long ago, for felt wads, Nos. 8 and 9, and for some cardboard. When I went to copy my orders I remembered that the man had given no size for the cardboard wanted, but I was pretty sure he wanted 12's, and wrote that size. As it happened the house was out of No. 9 felt and let it go, as he only wanted one-third of a dozen. What did the fellow do but send back the card-board wads, saying he had ordered 9's, and giving us Hail Columbia for sending 12's instead, as well as a long epistle about knowing his own business, and not wanting our help in running it. The card-board wads were worth about 33 cents, and the express charges on them back were 25 cents. I tell you the world is full of smart Alecks.”