“Shoes,” answered Lydia, taking them from under her arm and handing them up to Mr. Jolly. “My mother wants to know whether you can mend them.”
Mr. Jolly looked them over with his head on one side like a bird. Then he nodded.
“Yes, I can,” said he. “Done to-morrow this time. Don’t you like flowers?”
Lydia was no longer startled by his abrupt questions.
“Yes, I do,” she answered, as sparing of words as he.
“Have you a garden?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Lydia, “but not so nice as yours.”
“Take good care of it?” inquired Mr. Jolly, with a keen look. “Ever forget to water it? Dry weather we’re having. Plenty of care, plenty of water; that’s what makes a good garden.”
“I take pretty good care of it,” answered Lydia truthfully. “Sometimes I forget. I’ll come to-morrow for my shoes.” And she turned to go.
“Wait,” called Mr. Jolly. “Don’t you want to know why I have a shop like this?”