He had a quiet old horse and a curious top buggy with the unmistakable box of an agent or peddler built on behind.
"My name," he said, "is Canfield.

I fight dust." "And mine," I said, "is Grayson.

I whistle." I discovered that he was an agent for brushes, and he opened his box and showed me the greatest assortment of big and little brushes: bristle brushes, broom brushes, yarn brushes, wire brushes, brushes for man and brushes for beast, brushes of every conceivable size and shape that ever I saw in all my life.

He had out one of his especial pets--he called it his "leader"-- and feeling it familiarly in his hand he instinctively began the jargon of well-handled and voice-worn phrases which went with that particular brush.

It was just as though some one had touched a button and had started him going.