Walter Sherwood's Probation

“Would you be willing to pay my expenses and ten per cent. commission on sales?”

“Why do you prefer this to a stated salary?”

“Because it would be an incentive to do my best. Then if I helped you to a successful sale I should be paid in proportion.”

“I have an idea. You look blooming and healthy. Are you willing I should advertise you as one who has been snatched from death by my celebrated balm?”

“I don’t think I would like it, sir. It would be imposing upon the public.”

“I merely suggested it, but I won’t insist upon it. I suppose you are thoroughly honest and reliable?”

Walter smiled.

“I don’t know that my assurance will satisfy you, but I can truly say that I am.”

“You look it, and I trust a good deal to appearances. I will accept your assurance.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Can you join me at once?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I will expect you to bring your baggage here during the day—the sooner the better. You will then receive your instructions.”

Walter was very glad to hear this, for his purse was so nearly exhausted that it was comforting to think his lodging and meals would hereafter be paid by some one else. When he came to reflect upon the nature of his duties—general assistant to a quack doctor, playing on village commons and in country halls to draw a crowd of prospective customers, he felt that it was hardly a thing to be proud of. With his college training he ought to be qualified for something better, but the cold, hard fact stared him in the face that it was the only employment that offered, and he must accept it or starve. Walter had become practical. His limited acquaintance with the world had made him so, and he was not going to refuse bread and butter because it was offered by a quack doctor.

Within an hour Walter had given up his room—the rent had been paid in advance—and transferred his luggage to the Hotel Brevoort, where he was assigned a small apartment on the upper floor.

“I shall leave the city in two days,” said the professor. “I have put an advertisement into the daily papers which brings customers to the hotel, but I depend chiefly upon my sales on the road.”

“Do you travel on the cars?” asked Walter.

“No; I have a neat wagon in which I carry a supply of bottles of balm, and this enables me to stop where I like. I prefer villages to very large towns and cities. It is better for me to visit places where there are no drug-stores, as the people are more dependent on what is brought to them.”

“When you are in the city shall I get my commission?”

“Ahem! I am not clear as to that,” answered Professor Robinson thoughtfully. “You see you are not called upon to play.”

“Suppose you give me five per cent. in Chicago and large places.”

“Very well. I will do so. I will settle with you at the end of every week, if that will be satisfactory.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two days afterward a light wagon drew up in front of the hotel, drawn by a strong horse, and Walter helped the professor to put a trunk of medicine in the back part. Then he seated himself with Professor Robinson on the front seat, and they set out in the direction of the suburbs.

A new life was opening before Walter. What it would lead to he could not guess. At any rate, it promised him a living, and this was a practical advantage which he had learned to appreciate.

“How long have you been in this business, professor?” he asked.

“Ten years,” answered the professor.

“How did you happen to go into it?”

“I’ll tell you. Ten years ago I found myself in a tight place. I was on my uppers, as the actors say. A friend, who was a drug clerk, gave me the recipe for my balm, I borrowed a hundred dollars, had a quantity made up, and set out on the road.”

“And now?”

“Now I am worth fifteen thousand dollars, well invested, and can make a good living every year.”

All this was encouraging to Walter. He was eager to begin his work.

CHAPTER XX

ON THE ROAD

On a small common, near the center of the village of Brandon—for special reasons I do not give the real names of places visited by the travelers—Professor Robinson halted his wagon and signed to Walter to commence playing.

“Give ‘em something popular,” he said.

Walter struck up “Annie Rooney,” and followed it up with “McGinty.”

Within ten minutes fifty persons were gathered about the wagon. Then the professor held up his hand and Walter stopped.

“Gentlemen,” began the professor, “my young assistant will soon charm you again with the dulcet strains of his violin. But it is necessary for me to combine business with pleasure, and it affords me satisfaction to call your attention to the surpassing merits of my Liquid Balm, only twenty-five cents a bottle. It is a sovereign remedy for most of the diseases that flesh is heir to. All diseases of the stomach, liver, and lungs are, if not cured, very greatly mitigated by this wonderful medicine. It is the only remedy for consumption that can be relied upon. Why, gentlemen, a year since I was selling in a small town in Ohio. Among those who gathered about me was a hollow-cheeked man with a churchyard cough. He asked me if I would undertake to cure him. I answered that I would guarantee nothing, but was convinced that his life would be prolonged by the use of my balm. He bought half-a-dozen bottles. Where do you think that man is now?”

Voice in the crowd: “In the grave.”

“Not a bit of it, gentlemen. He is hale and hearty, his face is full, his color healthy, and he tips the scales at one hundred and seventy-five pounds. I was myself surprised at the extraordinary efficacy of my wonderful medicine. He used in all a dozen bottles, giving me a second order later on, and so for the paltry sum of three dollars was drawn back from the brink of the grave, and restored to life and health. Now, who will buy a bottle?”

This appeal sold eight bottles.

A saffron-faced man came forward and asked if the balm could cure liver-complaint.

“My friend,” said the professor, “if you will try the balm—you ought to have half-a-dozen bottles, as it is uncertain when I shall come this way again—your liver will become O. K. and your face will be as fresh and blooming as that of a twelve-year-old boy.”

This prospect seemed so encouraging that the saffron-faced man bought four bottles, and took the professor’s address.

At the end of about twenty minutes Walter struck up again, a lively dancing tune, and was listened to with evident pleasure.

When all who desired the balm seemed to have invested, the professor brought out a supply of toilet soaps, and sold to the amount of a couple of dollars.

At the end of two hours he packed up his wares, Walter took a seat beside him, and they started for the next village.

“You had a pretty good sale, professor,” said Walter.

“Yes; as well as I can calculate I took in about ten dollars.”