Inspired by past successes, he walked boldly up to the front door, and rang the bell.
"Is Mr.Whiting in ?" asked Bobby, who had read the name on the door plate.
"Colonel Whiting _is_ in," replied the servant, who had opened the door.
"I should like to see him for a moment, if he isn't busy." "Walk in;" and for some reason or other the servant chuckled a great deal as she admitted him.
She conducted him to a large, elegantly furnished parlor, where Bobby proceeded to take out his books for the inspection of the nabob, whom the servant promised to send to the parlor.
In a moment Colonel Whiting entered.

He was a large, fat man, about fifty years old.

He looked at the little book merchant with a frown that would have annihilated a boy less spunky than our hero.

Bobby was not a little inflated by the successes of the morning, and if Julius Caesar or Napoleon Bonaparte had stood before him then, he would not have flinched a hair--much less in the presence of no greater magnate than the nabob of B----.
"Good morning, Colonel Whiting.

I hope you are well this beautiful morning." Bobby began.
I must confess I think this was a little too familiar for a boy of thirteen to a gentleman of fifty, whom he had never seen before in his life; but it must be remembered that Bobby had done a great deal the week before, that on the preceding night he had slept in Chestnut Street, and that he had just sold four copies of "The Wayfarer." He was inclined to be smart, and some folks hate smart boys.
The nabob frowned; his cheek reddened with anger; but he did not condescend to make any reply to the smart speech.
"I have taken the liberty to call upon you this morning, to see if you did not wish to purchase a copy of 'The Wayfarer'-- a new book just issued from the press, which people say is to be the book of the season." My young readers need not suppose this was an impromptu speech, for Bobby had studied upon it all the time he was coming from Boston in the cars.