Stephen made the statement a question by the rising inflection. He spoke with the hesitating assurance which had made so many people trust him. The proprietor shook his head in answer: “No, there is no demand.” “Is it not that people do not think, perhaps, do not know of your place?” “Very likely you are right,” answered the storekeeper. He was pleased by the stranger’s interest in his business. Then Loring played his high card. “Suppose that you had an active English-speaking agent, who would go to the offices and homes of the American and English colony, and collect umbrellas to be repaired, then would not your business flourish?” The shop owner grasped the plan, but not with both hands. “Y-e-s,” he answered slowly. In dealing with an American he felt that he must be on his guard. “Well,” continued Stephen, “I am such a man, very efficient (Heaven help me!) and reliable (It won’t!). For a commission, no pay in advance, but for a commission of say ten cents for each umbrella, I will collect for you.” The umbrella man consented half reluctantly. The matter was soon arranged, and Loring hastened forth upon his rounds. By six o’clock, after many strange experiences, and rebuffs, he had managed to collect ten umbrellas. Gaudy red, somber black, two green ones, and one white. All were in advanced stages of decrepitude. He had pleaded with the owners to let them be restored, as if each umbrella had an “inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” With his odd collection bundled under his arms, Loring started on his return to the store. Greatly pleased with the success of his scheme, he strolled along talking to himself, and not noticing where he was going.