“That Woolly Dog in your window,” answered Mr. Blakeley. “I’ll take it. My nephew’s birthday,” he added, with a smile. Perhaps he thought if he didn’t say this that Mrs. Clark might think he wanted the Woolly Dog for himself. “Wrap it up, please.”
Mrs. Clark was still “all in a flutter.” Never before, in all the years that she had kept store, had anyone bought anything of her without asking the price. And often, when she told them the price, little as it was, the customer walked out without buying.
And Mr. Blakeley had said:
“I’ll take it!”
Just like that—poof!
Mrs. Clark reached over in the show window and picked up the Woolly Dog. She held him firmly in her hand, for her fingers trembled a bit and she did not want to drop the white, clean toy in the dust.
“Oh, I wonder what is going to happen to me?” thought the Woolly Dog, as he felt himself lifted up. “I think there is going to be a great change! Goodness knows I hope so! I hope I’m sold, for Mrs. Clark’s sake. Poor woman, she needs the money I’ll bring.
“Though I shall feel sad at leaving my friends, the poor toys, still, I was shut up in the agent’s sample valise so long that, really, I have had no adventures worth speaking about. Now I feel I am to see life.” So thought the Woolly Dog.
“This is—er—rather an expensive toy,” said Mrs. Clark slowly, as she smoothed the Dog’s wool. “Though it is considered one of the best. The price—er—the price—is—three dollars!”
She almost whispered those last two words, so fearful was she of shocking Mr. Blakeley.