The door opened, and closed behind a strongly-made man of twenty-six or seven, of homely features, with black hair, in clothes which he had outgrown. It was a bitter night, but he had no coat over his flannel jacket. He walked straight down the store, between the dry-goods counters, to the snug corner at the rear, where the knot of talkers sat; nodded, without a smile, to each of them, and then asked the storekeeper for some simple articles of food, which he wished to buy. It was Eph.
While the purchases were being put up, an awkward silence prevailed, which the oil-suits hanging on the walls, broadly displaying their arms and legs, seemed to mock, in dumb show.
Nothing was changed, to Eph's eyes, as he looked about. Even the handbill of familiar pattern—
seemed to have always been there.
The village parliament remained spellbound. Mr. Adams tied up the purchases, and mildly inquired,—
“Shall I charge this?”
Not that he was anxious to open an account, but that he would probably have gone to the length of selling Eph a barrel of molasses “on tick” rather than run any risk of offending so formidable a character.
“No,” said Eph; “I will pay for the things.”
And having put the packages into a canvas bag, and selected some fish-hooks and lines from the show-case, where they lay environed by jack-knives, jews-harps, and gum-drops,—dear to the eyes of childhood,—he paid what was due, said “Good-night, William,” to the storekeeper, and walked steadily out into the night.