No lights anywhere; no one about; nothing but-- “Hotel, sir?” Good; here was a ray of comfort. “Hotel? Well, I should say so. Where is your light?” “Here it is.” And a lantern came around a corner as the train dashed off on its way. “Don't mind your trunk; that will be taken care of and I'll get it in the morning. Here, Dan, lead the way.” We walked a square or two and went into a neat appearing office. Bed? Yes, I might as well get a few hours' sleep. And I was given a very comfortable room. I lay in bed trying to recall our customer's name, and preparing my speech of introduction when--. Some one was rapping at the door. What's up? Breakfast! What, breakfast already? Why, I hadn't thought I was asleep at all. As I looked over the register, after breakfast, dreading to start out, I asked the clerk; “Been any gun men here lately?” “None since last week. Layton was here from Pittsburg on the 22d.” “Did he sell anything?” “I think he did sell Cutter a small bill” “How many stores are there here?” “Three that sell guns. Are you in the gun business!” “Yes. I am from Pittsburg.” I hung back as long as I dared; found out all about the trains; picked up facts and fancies about the merchants; got my cards and price-book handy; stuck four revolvers (samples) in my pockets; pulled my hat down solidly on my head, and started out. And every step I took I, figuratively, kicked myself for being there, and for being a blasted fool generally. “JOHN O. JORDAN, GUNS AND REVOLVERS.” This was the legend that attracted my attention, and toward it I took my way. I stopped at the window long enough to take a hasty inventory of its contents, and from it I sized up my man. There were some goods there that came from our store; this cheered me, I took courage, walked in, and handed Mr. Jordan my card. “We have done some business with you,” I said, in my blandest tones, “and Mr. Mallon always spoke pleasantly of you [this was a random shot]; he has taken a wife unto himself, and I am making his trip.” “Why the devil don't you send me the goods I ordered last time from him? Where are those British bull-dogs? Did he sell them too low, or is my credit poor?” Phew! There it was. I must first close up an old sore before I could do anything else. I might have known it would be just so, but I was such a pig-headed fool I hadn't thought of this. “Tell me all about it, Mr. Jordan;” and he told it, with fire in his eye. But he felt better for having told it. I knew nothing of it till now, but I took out my book and said: “Mr. Jordan, the goods will come now. You may depend upon it. How many bull-dogs do you want?” “I don't want any. I got some of Layton. The house can't fool me again.” I sat down on the counter and gave him fourteen reasons for his order not having been filled (I hope some of them were true), and then I pulled out a “Pet” revolver and asked him if seventy-five cents was not mighty low for that.