"Well, look again. Don't stand thar starin' like an ijut!"
The young man did as he was commanded. He searched and rummaged, but all in vain.
"Oh, come out of that, an' let me thar," and Farrington shoved his way past the clerk, and fumbled excitedly in the box.
"Ah-yes-no-fifty-sixty-Well, I declare! Not thar! Confound it! Why didn't ye tell me we were out before? Why did ye wait till the last spool was gone afore sayin' a word about it?"
"I've only been here a week," replied the clerk, "and how could I know you were out. No one has called for number forty thread since I've been here."
Farrington was beaten, and was forced to swallow his anger as best he could. It was most aggravating to be thus humiliated in the presence of this woman. He strode across the room, and stood with his back to the stove, wondering how he could get even with his clerk. He would discharge him. "No, that wouldn't do. It was hard to get a man to stay with him, and this was a good worker. Anyway, he must be taught his place, and not answer back. He would let him know that he owned the store.
"Give me my mail, please."
Farrington started, and turning, beheld a little lad standing by his side.
"Mail! whose mail?" he demanded, glad of an excuse to give vent to his anger. "What's yer name? I don't know anything about my mail."
"I want Parson John's mail," persisted the boy. "Don't you know him?"