"Mrs. Sawyer and I," said he, "do—not—exchange—gifts—at Christmas. This cabinet is for my private office at the bank."
Jimsy's face fell.
"Aw," he said gently, "seems like ye'd orta give her sumthin' fur Christmas. She's so awful good.... B'long to the union?"
"I—I beg your pardon?"
"Carpenters' union. Jack Sweeny does."
The first citizen froze.
"Carpentering with me," he explained stiffly, "is a fad—not an occupation or a necessity. I," he added "am President of the Lindon Bank."
Jimsy's glance was sympathetic. It regretted the world's gain of a bank president at the expense of a better carpenter.
"I kin plane," he pleaded eagerly. "Honest Injun, I kin. I kin whittle too, like ol' Scratch. Lemme plane this—"
"I thank you," began Mr. Sawyer coldly, with unfortunate selection of words, "but—" His voice faltered under Jimsy's shining gaze. For, reading in the formal repudiation a vote of thanks, Jimsy had seized a plane and set to work.