Her coast was now clear, however. She went up to the stall, which was well stocked with both fruit and flowers, and repeated her question.
“Is Dan Murphy here? I wish to speak to him.” When she asked her question a man with a Jewish type of face stepped forward and replied civilly:
“Can I serve you, ma’am?”
Poll bestowed a withering glance upon this individual.
“No, lad, you can’t serve me,” she replied. “I want the owner of this stall, Dan Murphy. He’s an old crony o’ mine.”
“You haven’t heard then, ma’am, that Murphy has sold his business to me. This stall is mine now.”
“My word, but that’s a blow.” Poll was turning away.
“Can’t I serve you, ma’am?” called the new owner of the stall after her.
“No, lad, no; that you can’t.”
She walked across the market, stepping daintily between long rows of flowering plants and great piles of strawberries, currants, raspberries, and other summer fruits. The air was redolent with the sweet, fresh smell of fruit and flowers; the hawkers were pressing their wares, and customers were rapidly filling their baskets.