"I hear about you now and again, in the way of trade," Mr. Cheeseman went on. "Folks come in, and talk a spell; you know how 'tis. I've gone so fur as to ask folks about you, folks whose opinion was worth havin'. They all like you fust-rate; say you're a good feller, none better, but you'll never make good. Ask 'em why, and they tell about your givin' goods away right along; a half a dozen sticks here, a roll of lozengers there, quarter-pounds all along the ro'd so to say. Now, young man, that ain't trade!"
Calvin's slow blood crept up among the roots of his hair. "I don't know as it's any of their darned business!" he said slowly.
"It ain't, nor yet it ain't mine to tell you; nor yet it ain't the wind's; yet it keeps on blowin' just the same, and while you're cussin' it for liftin' your hat off, it's turnin' your windmill for you. See?"
Calvin raised his head with a jerk.
"I see!" he said. "That's straight. I see that, Mr. Cheeseman, and thank you for sayin' it. But—well now, see how 'tis at my end. I'm joggin' along the ro'd, see? hossy and me, who so peart, lookin' for trade. Well, here come a little gal; pretty, like as not,—little gals mostly are, and when they ain't you're sorry enough to make it even—and when she sees us she stops, and hossy stops. He knows! wouldn't go on if I told him to. Say she don't speak a word; say she just looks at me kind o' wishful; what would you do? She's a child, and she wants a stick of candy; that's what I'm there for, ain't it, to see that she gets it? Well! and she hasn't got a cent. What would you do? Would you drive off and leave her cryin' in the ro'd behind you?"
"I would!" said Mr. Cheeseman firmly. "She'd ought to have got a cent from her Ma, and she'll do it next time if you don't give in now."
"Mebbe she has no Ma!" said Calvin gloomily. "Mebbe her Ma's a Tartar."
"That ain't your lookout!" retorted Mr. Cheeseman. "Now, friend Parks, it comes to just this. You put this to yourself straight; are you runnin' a candy route, or an orphan asylum?"
Calvin was silent, gazing darkly at the pan of cinnamon drops before him. Mr. Cheeseman, having driven his nail home, put away his hammer.
"Now about your stock!" he said cheerfully. "You rather run to sticks in your fancy, but if I was you I'd go a mite more into fancy truck Christmas time. Gives 'em a change, and seems more holiday like. Take this lobster loaf, now!"