“Then—then you knew?” he stammered.
“Of course I knew. I saw you sit down on it, didn't I? If I'd known what you were going to do I'd have told you to look out. But you did it so quick I couldn't. Now tear off as much as you can.”
The young gentleman obeyed orders. “Does it show much?” he queried. “I can't see. Is there much left?”
Mary-'Gusta smiled. His contortions were as violent as they were vain. “There's enough,” she said simply. “Here are the things you bought. Now go out of the back door and cut across the fields. It's the shortest way home.”
Mr. Smith took his various parcels, including the six boxes of marshmallows which Mary-'Gusta produced from beneath the counter. “I thought you said these were stale,” he observed, wonderingly.
“I said they weren't real fresh, but they're fresh enough for a toast. I said that so that the Keith girl wouldn't wait. I didn't think you wanted her to.”
“You bet your life I didn't! So that's why you said you would have to open the other box? Just—just to help me out?”
“Yes. Now don't stop any longer. You'll have to run, you know. Go out the back way.”
Crawford started for the door of the back room, but at that door he paused.
“Say,” he said, feelingly, “this is mighty white of you, do you know it? And after the way I guyed you when I first came in! I guess I was rather fresh, wasn't I?”