Without the profits from the light and ephemeral popular literature of the season, the book-store proper could not keep up its stock of more solid works, and indeed could not long keep open at all.
On the other hand, "Thurston's" dealt with nothing save the demand of the moment, and offered only the books which were the talk of the week.
Thus, in plain words, the book trade was going to the dogs, and it was the same with pretty nearly every other trade.
Theron was indignant at this, and on his return home told Alice that he desired her to make no purchases whatever at "Thurston's." He even resolved to preach a sermon on the subject of the modern idea of admiring the great for crushing the small, and sketched out some notes for it which he thought solved the problem of flaying the local abuse without mentioning it by name.

They had lain on his desk now for ten days or more, and on only the previous Friday he had speculated upon using them that coming Sunday.
On this bright and cheerful Tuesday morning he walked with a blithe step unhesitatingly down the main street to "Thurston's," and entered without any show of repugnance the door next to the window wherein, flanked by dangling banjos and key-bugles built in pyramids, was displayed the sign, "Pianos on the Instalment Plan." He was recognized by some responsible persons, and treated with distinguished deference.

They were charmed with the intelligence that he desired a piano, and fascinated by his wish to pay for it only a little at a time.

They had special terms for clergymen, and made him feel as if these were being extended to him on a silver charger by kneeling admirers.
It was so easy to buy things here that he was a trifle disturbed to find his flowing course interrupted by his own entire ignorance as to what kind of piano he wanted.

He looked at all they had in stock, and heard them played upon.