He went into the back room and sat down on a pickle keg, and with a brush and a can of black paint, on a smooth piece of pine before him, he began to paint. After he had worked for half an hour, Peter Potter tiptoed up behind him and looked over his shoulder. He read upon one piece of pine: “I dare you to look at this and not want to eat it!” and on the other: “We have turned over a new leaf. Have you?” Peter slipped away and indulged in the unusual occupation of deep and concentrated thought. His eyes were following Jason while he cleaned out one of the show windows, set the new sign of challenge in it, and surrounded it with bread, cake, cookies, and every delicious food in the grocery that he could display in the open. Through the other freshly washed window, the passer-by might read the leaf sign and see an assortment of cheese and pickles, and half of a ham that looked as pink as a piece of coral framed in a broad white ring of sweet, sugar-cured fat. A freshly dusted coffee canister stood near it. A big box of lima beans flanked it on one side and the brown and gold of smoked herring was on the other; along the back, an open keg of whitefish and another of mackerel, with samples of their contents attractively displayed.
Peter Potter stepped outside to reconnoitre. As he went, he noticed that the grime of years had been removed from his doors, which revealed the fact that they seriously needed a coat of paint. He looked through the windows with the fresh signs surrounded by such food as he did not know that he possessed, because he never had seen it so displayed. He stood there in the morning sunlight intently studying each of the windows. Presently, he realized that he was not alone. Two women with their market baskets on their arms had been attracted by the new display. He heard one of them say to the other: “Why, do you know, we ain’t had mackerel in a long time, and there’s nothing I like better.”
“And doesn’t that ham look good?” said the other. “What about some of them limy beans with cream and butter on them? Let’s go in.”
Peter stepped forward and opened his door.
“Ladies,” he said in his politest manner, “I’ve turned over that new leaf for sure and certain. I’m going to show this town what really good eating is. Walk right in and see for yourselves whether what I’m tellin’ you isn’t the truth.”
Then a shadow fell across Peter Potter’s shoulder. He looked up, quite a distance up, to find himself in what to most of the village of Ashwater was the portentous presence of the village banker—of less portent to Peter Potter than to many others, because while Peter had fallen into second place through lack of initiative, he was not in debt. He did have a balance in his favour, but for reasons of his own, his balance was not in the bank of Martin Moreland. Peter followed Martin Moreland through the door. He had difficulty in keeping the lines of his rotund face in order. His soul was bathed in a secret flood of pleasure. He could not remember having been so pleased in years and years as he was now pleased to see for himself the substantial surgical bandage swathing the headpiece of the suave banker, and in noticing that his right hand was thrust into the front of the double-breasted coat that he wore to reinforce the impression of authority and circumstance that he desired to convey to his fellow men.
And Peter knew, also, that it was time to set his feet very firmly upon his own floor and to unchain that bulldog credited to the possession of every Briton by birth, whether he be in his native land or the land of his adoption. Luckily, Peter had his fair share of canine inclinations in fine working order because of some years of disuse. He knew perfectly well that Martin Moreland was not interested in his new signs and his attractive display of food. He knew that he had entered his place of business in order to search his aisles with keen eyes and see for himself if Jason were working there. Peter’s eyes were sharply watching Martin Moreland’s face as Jason came down inside the counter on his way to the scales bearing a couple of dripping mackerel upon a sheet of wrapping paper. Peter’s heart turned over in his body and then stood still when Jason, looking up from the scale of weights, encountered the glaring eyes of the banker fixed upon him, and said smoothly and evenly: “Good morning, Mr. Moreland. I’ll take your order as soon as I finish with these ladies.”
Now Peter knew that Martin Moreland was not accustomed to waiting till ladies had been served, especially if the “ladies” carried market baskets on their arms and wore white aprons and cheap shawls across their shoulders. To use Peter’s own description of the situation to his wife that night, he “was havin’ a bully time.—Had to turn away for a minute to keep from snortin’ right in Moreland’s face.”
The banker followed Peter down the aisle and jostled him roughly with his elbow as he said to him: “Now you look here, Peter Potter. Answer me this. Who’s running this town?”
A very devil of perversity possessed Peter, for he answered: “Well, if you really think you are, your head looks like you’re makin’ a bally mess of it.”