His mumbled negative, his disappointed countenance reproached her.
“Of course,” she said pleasantly, as she put his purchases in paper, “I cannot charge you for the indiarubber.”
“Aw, cheese it!” he muttered shortly, flinging a penny on the counter.
“I beg your pardon?”—this with supreme haughtiness.
“Oh, ye needna. An’ ye can keep yer injinrubber—an’ yer pencils forbye!” With these words he wheeled about and strode for the door.
Christina collapsed. A customer who paid for goods and then practically threw them at her was beyond her experience and comprehension.
“Here!” she cried. “Stop a minute! I—I was jist jokin’. Come back an’ get yer things. We’ll no’ quarrel aboot the penny.”
With his fingers on the handle he paused and regarded her half angrily, half reproachfully. He wanted to say something very cutting, but it wouldn’t come.
“Please,” said Christina softly, dropping her eyes. “Ye’ll get me into trouble if ye dinna tak’ them.”
“Eh?”