“Could I really help you, Mr. Atkins?” he burst out, standing on his tiptoes, the very idea making him quite tall.
“Sure!” declared the storekeeper, slapping his thigh. “Beats all why I didn’t think of it before. Well, what d’ye say, David?”
The color rushed all over David’s face till it became rosy red. “Oh, Mr. Atkins,” and he dropped the bag, “can I come here and help keep the store?” and he clasped his hands.
“That’s what I been a-sayin’ to you,” cried the storekeeper, his pale green eyes sparkling.
“Can I really?”
“Sure as shootin’—I’d like it first rate. You’d be an awful help. You see, you could find out what folks wanted, an’ come an’ call me when I’m in th’ house.” Mr. Atkins pointed his big thumb over to the door that shut off the place where he ate and slept.
“Yes,” cried Davie, eagerly, “I could, Mr. Atkins.”
“An’ then you—you could hand me th’ string when I wanted to tie up th’ bundles.”
“Yes, I could.”
“An’ then,” said Mr. Atkins, casting about in his mind for the other things that now loomed up as most important in which he was to be helped, “why then, you could hand me th’ paper.”