"Yes?" said Nicholas again in the same tone.
Amos Burr was silent for a moment, and his wife filled in the pause with a series of running interjections. When they were over her husband took up his words.
"He wants a young fellow about his store, he says, as can look arter the books an' the business. He's gittin' too old to keep up with the city ways an' look peart at the ladies—he'll pay a nice little sum in cash every week."
"Yes?" repeated Nicholas, still interrogatively.
"An' he wants to know if you'll take the place—you're jest the sort of chap he wants, he says—somebody as will be bright at praisin' up the calicky to the gals when they come shoppin'. Thar's nothin' like a young man behind the counter to draw the gals, he says."
Nicholas shook his head impatiently, clasping the books tightly beneath his arm. His gaze had grown harsh and repellent.
"But I am going into the judge's office," he answered. "I am going—" Then he checked himself, baffled by the massive ignorance he confronted.
Amos Burr drew one shoulder from the fire and offered the other. A slow steam rose from his smoking shirt, and the room was filled with the odour of scorching cotton.
"Thar ain't much cash in that, I reckon," he said.
Nicholas took a step forward, still facing his father with obstinate eyes. One of the books slipped from his arm and fell to the floor, with open leaves, but he let it lie. He was watching his father's jaws as they rose and fell over the quid of tobacco.