The storekeeper and the poor girl were separated by a counter, on which was placed a showy case. She was dressed in a faded calico gown, and a shawl as worn and faded, hung about her shoulders. She wore a straw bonnet, although it was a night in mid-winter; and beneath her poverty-stricken dress, her shoes were visible: old and worn into shreds they scarcely clung to her feet. Her entire appearance indicated extreme poverty.
The storekeeper, who stood beneath the gas-light, was a well preserved and portly man of forty years, or more, with a bald head, a wide mouth and a snub nose. Rings glistered on his fat fingers. His black velvet vest was crossed by a gold chain. His spotless shirt bosom was decorated by a flashy breastpin. He spoke sharp and quick, and with a proper sense of his dignity as the Proprietor of the "only universal shirt store, No. ——, Canal St., New York."
Between him and the girl was a glass case, in which were displayed shirts of the most elegant patterns and elaborate workmanship. Behind him were shelves, lined with boxes, also filled with shirts, whose prices were labeled on the outside of each box. At his right-hand, was the shop-window,—a small room in itself—flaring with gas, and crowded with shirts of all imaginable shapes—shirts with high collars, Byron collars, and shirts without any collars at all;—shirts with plaits large, small and infinitesimal—shirts with ruffles, shirts with stripes and shirts with spots;—in fact, looking into the window, you would have imagined that Mr. Screw Grabb was a very Apostle of clean linen, with a mission to clothe a benighted world, with shirts; and that his Temple, "the Only Universal Shirt Store," was the most important place on the face of the globe. There, too, appeared eloquent appeals to passers-by. These were printed on cards, in immense capitals,—"Shirts for the Million! The Great Shirt Emporium! Who would be without a shirt, when Screw Grab sells them for only $1? This IS the ONLY Shirt Store,"—and so on to the end of the chapter.
The conversation which we have recorded, took place in this store, soon after 'gas-light' on the evening of Dec. 23d, 1844, between Mr. Screw Grabb and the Poor Girl, who stood before him, holding a small bundle in her arms.
"You surely do not mean to retain my money?" said the girl—and she laid one hand against the counter, and attentively surveyed the face of Mr. Grabb—"You find fault with my work—"
"Never saw wuss stitchin' in my life," said Grabb.
"But that is no reason why you should refuse to return the money which I placed in your hands. Consider, Sir, you will distress me very much. I really cannot afford to lose that five dollars,—indeed—"
She turned toward him a face which, impressed as it was with a look of extreme distress, was also invested with the light of a clear, calm, almost holy beauty. It was the face of a girl of sixteen, whom thought and anxiety had ripened into grave and serious womanhood. Her brown hair was gathered neatly under her faded straw bonnet, displaying a forehead which bore traces of a corroding care; there was light and life in her large eyes, light and life without much of hope; there was youth on her cheeks and lips; youth fresh and virgin, and unstained by the touch of sin.
"Will you give me them four shirts,—s-a-y?" was the answer of Grabb,—"them as you has in your bundle there?"
The girl for a moment seemed buried in reflection. May be the thought of a dreary winter night and a desolate home was busy at her heart. When she raised her head she fixed her eyes full upon the face of Mr. Grabb, and said distinctly: