“I don’t. I’m not. I—I hate it!”
“What makes you, then?”
“I hate other things worse, like Mother’s pale face over her work. I don’t mean I hate, but— Oh! I thought it would be easy, last night when we talked it over, and it isn’t. I expect every minute to meet some of the ‘Conservatory girls,’ then I should about die of mortification.”
“Well, I’m beat! If girls ain’t the queerest things! A wantin’ ter do things an’ not a wantin’ ter at the same time. Here, give me a bunch. I’ll show you. This is the way! Flowers! Flowers! Here they go! Nicest an’ puttiest chrysms in the city! Cheap at seventy-five cents! Only one place in town where a feller can get ’em! Here, young feller! Don’t you want a button-holer?”
“Too dear!” replied the good-natured clerk whom Robert had intercepted on his way down town.
“H’m-m. You don’t seem to succeed any better than I do, Bob. Chrysanthemums! The rarest shade in the city!”
The two amateur flower-sellers had soon traversed all the distance between their home and the very corner where their stock had been purchased, and yet not one blossom had been exchanged for the desired cash that was to buy the oyster dinner. When they came to the place where Bonny had met Mr. Brook she paused, undecided whether to cross into the next block or to take her stand there; but was finally decided to do the latter by the fact that a well-dressed woman had paused to examine the cluster of flowers and to admire them. She would even have bought one apparently, but as she opened her purse, Bonny gently mentioned the price, and the purse was closed with a snap.
“Sev-en-ty-five-cents! I think you must be new to the business, or you would never ask such an absurd amount as that! H’m-m. Seventy-five cents for one chrysanthemum!” And the woman with the plethoric pocket-book had passed on.
“I’m going into the store. I can’t bear this!” cried poor Beatrice, feeling utterly discouraged as her bright castle in the air fell tumbling in ruins. “They will take them, anyway, I’m sure. The clerk said yesterday to a customer that he could not supply the demand for blossoms of this shade. Come on, Bob! The worst he can do is stare a little, and it’s none of his business, certainly.” Thus swallowing her pride, which she felt was silly enough, Beatrice led the way into the shop which she had visited in Mr. Brook’s company the day before.
Robert followed, whistling gayly. Anything which kept him from school was matter of rejoicing to him, and though he realized that they were having very hard luck he felt no more shame in selling posies than newspapers; but his hilarity was suddenly checked by the dandified salesman calling out sharply: “Out of here, boy! We can’t have any boys in here!”