"And them that do pay have to make up for them that don't," Sam chuckled, wisely.
"That's about it," replied Peter, wearily, as he rolled the empty barrel toward the rear of the store.
"Say, Peter," said Sam, following, "I want to borrer some big sheets of wrappin' paper and your markin' ink and brush, if you don't mind."
"Goin' to write a letter?" grinned Peter.
"Now, Peter, quit your teasin'. I'll tell you all about it when it's finished."
"All right, help yourself," said Peter, as he went behind the counter, and turned an attentive ear, and a smiling what-will-you-have-this-morning look on a customer who had just come in.
Sam took twenty-five or thirty of the largest sheets of wrapping-paper he could find, and went into the back room where the oil, molasses, vinegar, empty boxes, etc., were kept. After rummaging about for a few minutes he found the marking ink and brush. Then he spread one of the sheets of paper on a bench, dipped the brush in the ink, and eyed the paper with a how-shall-I-begin look. Five minutes later Peter came out to draw some oil and found him in the same attitude.
"Got somethin' on your mind, Sam?" he asked.
"Eh! Oh, yes," Sam replied, "I say, Peter, have you got any old show-bills?"
"There's one in the window 'bout the firemen's 'play-out' over to Union Corners."