One of the four-in-hands dropped over the edge. The boy seized upon it, fingered it, and threw the bit of goods back in the heap. Poor stuff that, even at a quarter. His mother's frequent dissertations upon silk samples which she had brought home had taught him that much. He waved a frantic hand to attract attention until a tall, spectacled clerk took pity on him.
"Let's see a tie, a real one! Don't care if I have to pay a whole half-dollar for it!"
"What color?"
John's lower lip drooped. He hadn't noticed his father's taste in neckwear. "Red," he hazarded at last.
A crimson horror was thrust in front of him. Yellow cross-stripes clamored against the fiery background. The clerk twisted it deftly around his forefinger and, behold, it was made up as if in the paternal collar.
"Like it?"
John nodded and brought out a fifty-cent piece which he had forced from the pig bank that morning. A moment later, the wrapped holly box was given him, and he was off in the direction of the book department.
Still the crowds! They choked the aisles and carried him here and there at the mercy of their eddies. Now he was forced up against a wooden counter edge, now jammed against two fat women in rusty black who were buying devotional books for the edification of less pious friends. At last a sign, "Popular copyrights, fifty cents a volume," gave impetus to his hitherto haphazard course.
The poorly dressed salesgirl behind the counter smiled down at him in a manner which successive ten o'clock sessions had failed to eradicate. "What kind?" she asked.
His gaze wandered helplessly over the bewildering array of volumes.