E was thirty-two, pleasant and impressive to look at, and blessed with as much intelligence as is necessary to earn eight or ten thousand a year by selling clever lithographing for a New York corporation. He had transient friends in every city east of St. Louis; he called a number of "merchant princes" by their first names; and in his time he had bought cigars for a full regiment of captains of industry. It follows that he enjoyed an unlimited expense account, and justified it by his welcome habit of bringing home the orders. So, when his sales-manager received an inquiry from the Iroquois Biscuit Company, mentioning half a million six-color catalogues, he naturally selected Kendall to run up the state for a solicitation on the ground; and because the health and humor of good salesmen is almost as tangible an asset as bankable funds, he told him to stop over at Buffalo on the way, and be sure to get a good night's sleep.
Accordingly, Kendall stopped at Buffalo; and when the hotel clerk saw him he ran a pen through a reservation just made by telegraph from the West, and assigned him the best room in the house. The porter who carried the bags took a grin and a dime as cheerfully as a quarter from a stranger; and the head waiter respectfully declined to accept a demand for fried oysters, and told why. He said that they weren't exactly up to Mr. Kendall's standard, and suggested a steak. Later the billiard-room marker greeted Kendall with great cordiality, rang the bell himself, and even as the victor in a little session at three-cushions refused to allow his friend to sign the check. This wasn't simply because it was Buffalo. The same procedure would apply anywhere on the main line, proving that Kendall was a good salesman.
Having finished his billiards, Kendall went out to the café, where he found a young man, in the correct dress for young men, discoursing fluently upon the futility of human endeavor. And as Kendall seated himself at a small table and prepared to profit from the free lecture, the young man paused, hesitated, and then came smilingly over to him, holding out his hand.
"Hello!" he said. "Hel-lo! I'm Bobby Huntington. Who are you?"
Kendall laughed. He, too, he remembered, had once been young and irresponsible.
"I'm only a spectator," he admitted, "and an admirer of logic."
Within the quarter-hour they were friends; or at least Huntington was. Beginning with a summary of the deficiencies in his education, he passed on to the nature of society in the small town, to the essentials of heroism, and to the qualities which, if he were ever married, he should require in his wife. If he should sometime condescend to marry one of the sex, he should choose a rather plump one, fond of dancing and light wines, and not a suffragist. There was no chance of his marrying the wrong girl; … he was invariably most diplomatic in his correspondence. And that reminded him—wasn't Mr. Kendall going to New York? To-morrow night? Excellent! Would he be kind enough to mail a letter in New York? Many thanks, and no hurry at all.
They were friends, or at least Huntington was, for another quarter-hour before Kendall could escape him; and the opportunity came with the arrival of a big, boyish, clean-skinned man in frequently-worn cheviot. At sight of this man Mr. Huntington leaped from his chair and advanced.
"Take him; he's yours," said Kendall, generously. "He's doing thirty minutes of refined monologue, and the second show is about to commence."
Mr. Huntington turned to the new-comer. "I was bored!" he said. "I was bored, … and I talked to him, and now he thinks— Oh, what do I care what he thinks! You sit down and talk to me!"
On his way up-stairs Kendall dropped into the billiard-room to ask the marker what manner of kindergarten the hotel had adopted as a side-line.
"Huntington? He's a rare bird, isn't he?"
"He isn't the best advertisement in the world, Pa."
"Oh, he doesn't have a room here," said the marker, contemptuously. "He just comes in to use the stationery. I'd shoot you another game if I wasn't so busy—"
"That's all right, Pa. Happen to know when the Iroquois trains run? The clerk says they've shifted the schedule."
"Somebody asked me that once before to-night. It changed yesterday."
"Nobody from Continental Litho, was it?"
"No, I don't recollect who it was, … but the first train is six-forty-seven—gets there about noon. And the next is eight-forty. Here's a folder."
"Fine!" said Kendall, appreciatively. "Get up for a six-forty-seven? I'll be ashamed to look my watch in the face! Well, there's one consolation, Pa.… I'll sell ten thousand dollars' worth of printing to-morrow, if I ever get there."