I shook my head. "Jim," says I, "I can see where you stand. You're so dead sartin that an eatin'-house of that kind'll pay big, that you're blind to the rest of it. Now I don't pretend to be a judge of human nature like you—leavin' out Injun and Rosenstein human nature, of course—nor a doctor of sick businesses, which is your profession. But my experience is—"
He stood up and sniffed impatient.
"Cut it out, I tell you!" he says, again. "This ain't an experience meetin'. Will you take a flyer with me in that road-house, or won't you?"
"Way I feel now, I won't," says I, prompt.
He turned on his heel, took a step towards the door and then stopped.
"Well," he says, "you think it over till to-morrer mornin' and then let me know. Only, you mark my words, it's a chance. And, with me to keep my eye on it, there's no risk at all."
So that's the way it ended that day. And half that night I laid awake, feelin' meaner'n dirt to say no to as good a partner as I had, and yet pretty average sure I was right, just the same.
In the mornin' my mind was still betwixt and between. I went down to the store and walked back to the post-office department. I looked in through the little window and saw Mary Blaisdell inside, sortin' the outgoin' letters. The sunshine, streamin' in from outside, lit up her hair till it looked like one of them halos in a church picture. Seems to me I never saw her look prettier; but then, every time I saw her I thought the same thing. A good-lookin' woman and a good woman—yes, and capable. That she'd lived so many years without gettin' married, was one of the things that made a feller lose confidence in the good-sense of humans. The chap that got her would be lucky. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the lookin'-glass where customers tried on hats, and decided I'd better stop thinkin' foolishness or somebody would catch me at it and send me to the comic papers.
"Mornin', Mary," says I. "Has Mr. Jacobs come aboard yet?"
She turned and came to her side of the window.