“I think this stool is mine,” said he, picking it up and examining it. “It is mine,” he added, after a moment’s inspection. “Please move on.”
“Perhaps before I go,” returned the man with the same unpleasant irony, “you will tell me whether you have an express package here for Harvey Levake.”
“Of course I will, Harvey,” responded the operator in a matter-of-fact way. “Just wait a minute.”
Levake’s lips stretched into a ghost of a smile, and his white-lashed gray eyes contracted with an effort at amiability.
The operator, going inside the railing, ran over the express way-bills which, not yet entered up, lay on the freight desk.
“There is a package here for you,” he announced a moment later, and turning to a heap of parcels thrown under the desk he searched among them until he found and produced the one he sought.
“Here it is––a box of cartridges.”
“What are the charges?” asked the man.
“Four dollars and sixty cents.”