"If this ain't a pretty day to start the new year with, then I never see one, that's all," Calvin went on. "Crisp and clear, everything cracklin' with frost. Hossy's got a white mustash on him like a general. How's trade, Mr. Cheeseman?"
"Humph!" said Mr. Cheeseman again.
Calvin looked at him. The old gentleman's alert cheerfulness was gone; his aspect was grim, and the glance that met Calvin's was stern enough.
"What's wrong, sir?" Calvin inquired solicitously. "Ain't you feelin' well? You don't seem like yourself."
"I ain't!" said Mr. Cheeseman briefly.
"I want to know!" said Calvin, with an inflection of sympathetic inquiry. "Is it anything you feel disposed to mention, Mr. Cheeseman, or do I intrude?"
"It's something I've got to mention!" said Mr. Cheeseman.
He looked at Calvin again, and meeting his glance of open wonder, his own softened as if in spite of himself.
"Step inside, Mr. Parks!" he said, gravely. "I guess we've got to have a little talk. Lonzo, you might run on home if you're a mind to; that's a good son!"
In the warm, cosy kitchen, where the little stove still glowed like a friendly demon, the old man took his customary seat, and Calvin Parks, his brown eyes very round and large, sat down beside him. There was a moment's silence; then—