“No! Don’t!” exclaimed Dorothy.
“Why not? ’Fraid I might get burned? I don’t mind.”
“No, it isn’t that,” and she was conscious of a movement under the counter.
“Well, then, is it because you think I don’t know how to run that machine? I confess that I haven’t a working knowledge of it. A planing mill is more in my line. Now if you were to ask me to get you out so many feet of inch pine, tongue and groove, or something like that, I could do it in no time, but I will admit that getting coffee out of a contraption like that is a little beyond me. An old fashioned pot is simpler. Still, if I came behind, I might help you.”
He made a motion as if he were coming in.
“Don’t!” cried Dorothy again, and the dog growled.
“Oh, I see,” said the man. “He doesn’t like strangers. Well, maybe I can help you from outside here. I’ve no desire to be made into mincemeat so early in the morning.”
“What shall I do?” asked Dorothy, rather helplessly.
“About the dog?”
“No, about this coffee urn. What shall I turn first?”