"Hank's face looks it," grinned Luke Bates, the village wit, regarding Hank, who was quivering with fury, in an amused way, "never mix it up with a stove, Hank," he went on, "it'll get the best of you every time."
"Is this right?" demanded old Zack, turning to his grandson as soon as the laugh at Hank's expense subsided.
"Oh, yes, that's about the way it happened, I guess," said Ned in a low voice.
"What I want to know is who's going to settle for my stove," wailed Paul Stevens. "Here's a cracked draught-piece, a busted door, two lengths of stove-pipe flattened out like pancakes and soot all over a fine piece of dress goods."
"Name your price," groaned old Zack, wincing as if a twinge of rheumatism had passed through him, "but don't make it too steep," he added, cautiously, "or I won't pay it. How much, now?"
The storekeeper made a rapid mental calculation, in which his fingers and various grimaces played an important part.
"There's the stove door, say seventy-five cents; and the pipe, two lengths, a dollar; and the draught-piece—I'll have to send to New York for another, sixty cents; and the spoiled dress goods——"
"You'll only have to cut the outside edge off them," objected old Zack, his lips twitching nervously as the rising tide of expenses swamped his cautious senses.
"Wall, that'll be a yard, anyhow," announced the storekeeper, "that is twenty-five cents, we'll say. Two dollars thirty-five for the whole shebang."
"Two dollars thirty-five. It's rank robbery," objected the old farmer, almost giving utterance to a groan.