"Well, by ding! I don't know but what I do mind. What if you should take a notion, some day, to carve up the side of this buildin', hey?"
Billy grew thoughtful. "I hadn't thought o' that," he said slowly. "It's pine, too, ain't it? It 'ud carve fine."
Caleb turned quickly towards a pile of goods, behind which an audible titter had sounded.
"Ann," he commanded, "you run along and get your supper."
He waited until his daughter had closed the door behind her. "Now Billy," he said, sternly, "understan' me when I say that if you ever so much as lay a knife-blade onto the walls of this here store I'll jest naturally pinch the freckles off'n your nose, one by one. Hear that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, heed it, and heed it close. I'll overlook the cuttin' of my new bench, but, by ding! I'd ruther you'd carve me than carve this store." He paused abruptly and bent on Billy a quizzical look. "Whose 'nitials are them under yourn?" he asked.
Billy started. "Oh gosh! I dunno, Mr. Spencer; I jest cut the first ones come into my head."
"Umph! I'm not so green as I look. I know whose they be. They're Ann's."
Billy was silent. Should he tell the truth and say that he had carved Ann's initials on the bench and those of Walter Watland beneath them at that young lady's pleading request? No!