“I see, I see, child,” said the old man; “your fine gentleman is a fine thief, and there’s no lock to your little door to keep him out;” with which words he peered at it more closely than before.
“Well, now,” again showing his white teeth, “well, now, some of you old folks are knowing ’uns, sure enough; but now comes the great invention,” producing a small steel contrivance, very simple but ingenious, and which, being clapped on the inside of the little door, secured it as with a bolt. “There now,” admiringly holding it off at arm’s-length, “there now, let that soft-handed gentleman come now a’ softly trying this little knob here, and let him keep a’ trying till he finds his head as soft as his hand. Buy the traveler’s patent lock, sir, only twenty-five cents.”
“Dear me,” cried the old man, “this beats printing. Yes, child, I will have one, and use it this very night.”
With the phlegm of an old banker pouching the change, the boy now turned to the other: “Sell you one, sir?”
“Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use such blacksmiths’ things.”
“Those who give the blacksmith most work seldom do,” said the boy, tipping him a wink expressive of a degree of indefinite knowingness, not uninteresting to consider in one of his years. But the wink was not marked by the old man, nor, to all appearances, by him for whom it was intended.
“Now then,” said the boy, again addressing the old man. “With your traveler’s lock on your door to-night, you will think yourself all safe, won’t you?”
“I think I will, child.”
“But how about the window?”
“Dear me, the window, child. I never thought of that. I must see to that.”