There was a certain night, by way of illustration—a bitter night, along toward the first of January—when trade was dull, as it always is after Christmas, and there was nobody in the store save Nat and Tracey. Each had their task, whatever it may have been, and each was busied with it, but of the two Tracey seemed the more restless. His ample, if low, forehead was decidedly corrugated; his always rosy face owned an added trace of scarlet—a flush of perturbation; his chubby hands were inexpert, clumsy. He stumbled, fumbled, forgot and (in our homely phrase) flummoxed generally; his mind was elsewhere, and his hands and feet went anywhere but where they should have gone: a condition which eventually excited Duncan's attention.
He broke a long silence in the store. "What's the trouble, Tracey?"
Tracey pulled up with a stare of confusion. "I—I dunno, Mr. Duncan; I was thinkin', I guess."
"Anything gone wrong?"
"Not yet." Niobe would have made the response with a greater show of cheer.
Duncan looked up curiously, struck by the boy's tone. "Somebody been demonstrating that your doll's stuffed with sawdust, Tracey?"
"No-o, but..."
"Well?"
"Say, Mr. Duncan—" Tracey's confusion became terrific.
"Say on, Mr. Tanner."