Mr. Follet was a man of unique business methods. He had no idea of orderliness, though he insisted he knew where everything was, and strenuously declined his wife’s offers to go over to the store, or stores rather, and help him “straighten up.” The stock had overflowed the floor of the original building and instead of putting in shelves to dispose of the stock conveniently, he built another and still another shanty to hold the overflow. But in spite of queer methods he was making money steadily. He kept each building securely locked, for he said he wouldn’t have idle folks sitting around in his store. He went over to the station according to the railroad time schedule, though it was only a flag station and was seldom flagged, and whenever he saw a customer at the store door or on the way, he bustled over to unlock the door, stumble around in the dark, for there were no windows, and hunt out what they wanted.
Bacon, molasses, dress-goods, coffins and farm implements were on close terms of intimacy and whatever 73 was wanted Mr. Follet could produce with amazing promptness.
Such methods, however, consumed a great deal of time on the path between his home and the store, and Steve filled an urgent need of the combined establishment.
One morning at breakfast in early autumn Mr. Follet was in a great flutter of excitement. A travelling auditor of the railroad was to be there for the day looking over his accounts and this not frequent event was a sore trial to both the station-master and the auditor. Each time Mr. Follet said to him nervously: “Now, you know I can’t keep things like the road tells me to, and if things don’t just come out even I’ll make up whatever’s lacking.”
When the auditor, a big, broad-shouldered, kindly-faced gentleman arrived on this particular morning, and was seated for work, Mr. Follet made his usual statement.
“All right, Mr. Follet, all right,” said the genial auditor, “we know you are straight as a string. Are you sure you’ve got all the ticket stubs?” he continued as Mr. Follet brought out some bits of pasteboard from a big bushel basket.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” said Mr. Follet. “I don’t let nobody in here but myself and so nothing is out of place.” Then thinking a minute, he said, “Well 74 now I do believe I stuck a few stubs in this tin pail.” He looked, and sure enough there were a few more.
“And the bills of lading,” said the auditor, “are these all?”
Mr. Follet pondered a moment and then brightening, exclaimed: “Why no, I stuck a few of them in one of these here coffins one day for safe keeping,” and he stepped over to a grim pine coffin keeping company with a pile of gay bandanas, and brought forth another bunch of bills. But his foot caught in a coil of barbed wire as he started over to the auditor with them and it was at that moment that Steve came to the station door to get something and Mr. Follet called out, “Here, Steve, hand these over to the gentleman.” The boy started to obey, but when he turned and faced the auditor he stood rooted to the floor, his face white and eyes staring.
“What ails you?” said Mr. Follet sharply, noticing him. The auditor looked quickly up also, and the boy found his voice.