“Oh, no, there isn’t any sign of that kind,” Betty explained hastily. “The one on the door is about our new gift-shop department. The snow-storm last night washed it almost out, and we haven’t had time yet to make a new one. I suppose I might at least take it down.” Betty started toward the door, but the tall young man barred her way.
“Let me take it down for you,” he suggested, “while you get me some tea. Because if there isn’t any sign—but perhaps you just depend on the general understanding that seems to pervade this manless town.”
“Oh, no,” Betty assured him hospitably. “We’re very glad to have men come here. They often do—or at least,” she added truthfully, “several have since we opened.”
“That’s good,” said the young man gaily. “All right then, since I may stay, I should like a pot of tea—a very big pot, please, with lots of hot water, and lots of cream, and lots of crackers spread very thick with strawberry jam. Now I’ll pull down the sign while you’re getting the tea.”
“Very well,” said Betty demurely. “Which table do you prefer?”
“This,” said the young man promptly, pointing to the small one in the alcove, close to Betty’s desk.
When she came back after having left his order with Nora, he was pacing up and down the room, examining the old brasses with interest, peering into each stall and nodding approvingly as he whirled the double-decker bread-trays, patted the fat mustard jars, and inspected all the different varieties of candle-shades.
“I say,” he began, when he saw Betty, “if you put in those nails on the door, you did a very good job. I can’t get them out. Have you a hammer?”
It was zero weather outside, and the young man had no overcoat. When he came in again with the remains of the poster under his arm, he was shivering with the cold. Betty, who was sure that he was a gentleman, even if he did have rather a queer way of talking, felt that the least she could do was to bring a chair close to the fire and poke the logs into a blaze for him; and of course he insisted upon doing the poking for her, and that led to more conversation.
“It’s a jolly little place you’ve got here,” he said, leaving the fire to examine the motley array of pretty trifles that covered the gift-table. “I saw it yesterday as I drove up from the station, and I realized that it would probably save my life. You see, I’ve been years in England, and I’m awfully addicted to afternoon tea. If I had my way, we’d serve it regularly at the factory, but a lot of more important things must come first, so I shan’t queer myself by mentioning anything so frivolous as tea yet a while—especially when I can just climb the fence and drop in here. I say,” he added quickly, “you don’t mind my coming in over the fence, do you? It’s licks shorter.”