“Good-morning, Mr. Hadley. Charming morning, Sir—beautiful day, Sir. What’s the word this morning, Sir?”
“Nothing, nothing,” returned the customer. “Pretty print that. Just what I’ve been looking for” (renewed rubbing of hands on the part of Mr. Newt)—“very pretty. If it’s the right width, it’s just the thing. Let me see—that’s about seven-eighths.” He shook his head negatively. “No, not wide enough. If that print were a yard wide, I should take all you have.”
“Oh, that’s a yard,” replied Mr. Newt; “certainly a full yard.” He looked around inquiringly, as if for a yard-stick.
“Where is the yard-stick?” asked Mr. Hadley.
“Timothy!” said Mr. Newt to the boy, with a peculiar look.
The boy disappeared and reappeared with a yard-stick, while Mr. Newt’s face underwent a series of expressions of subdued anger and disgust.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Hadley, laying the yard-stick upon the calicoes; “yes, as I thought, seven-eighths; too narrow—sorry.”
There were thirty cases of those goods in the loft. Boniface Newt groaned in soul. The unconscious small boy, who had not understood the peculiar look, and had brought the yard-stick, stood by.
“Mr. Newt,” said Hadley, stopping at another case, “that is very handsome.”
“Very, very; and that is the last case.”