“Never mind that. It would be cheap to me, whatever it cost,” returned the little man. “Anything else, John?”
“A small box,” replied the carrier. “Here you are!”
“‘For Caleb Plummer,’” read the old man, spelling out the directions. “‘With Cash!’ With cash, John? I don’t think it’s for me!”
“‘With Care,’” corrected the carrier, looking over his shoulder. “Where do you make out ‘cash’?”
“Oh! To be sure!” said Caleb. “It’s all right. ‘With Care!’ Yes, yes; that’s mine. It might have been ‘With Cash,’ if my dear boy in South America had lived, John. You loved him like a son; didn’t you? You needn’t say you did. I know, of course.”
He read again, “‘Caleb Plummer. With Care.’ Yes, yes; it’s all right. It’s a box of dolls’ eyes for my daughter’s work. I wish it was her own sight in a box, John!”
“I wish it was, or could be,” cried the carrier.
“Thankee,” said the little man. “You speak very hearty. To think that she should never see the dolls—and them a staring at her so bold, all day long! That’s where it cuts. What’s the cost, John,—what’s the damage?”
“I’ll damage you,” said John, “if you ask.”
“Well, it’s like you to say that,” observed the little man. “It’s your kind way. Let me see. I think that’s all.”