“Yes,” said Davie, “an’ couldn’t I sometimes tie up bundles, Mr. Atkins?” he asked anxiously.
“I shouldn’t wonder if you could,” cried Mr. Atkins; “you’re so smart, Davie Pepper, you’d learn real easy,” and he slapped his thigh again.
“I’d try to learn,” cried David in a glow, “and then I could help you, couldn’t I, Mr. Atkins, keep store when I could tie up bundles?”
“You’d help me splendid before you learn to tie up bundles,” declared Mr. Atkins just as excited, “just bein’ here an’ waitin’ on me.”
“And I’m going to learn to tie up bundles,” cried David in a transport. Then he looked down at the paper bag of Indian meal at his feet, and he hung his head. “I’m so sorry,” he faltered. Oh, now Mr. Atkins wouldn’t want him, of course. A boy who dropped bundles all over the place wasn’t to be trusted; and this splendid chance to help Mamsie was gone.
“’Tain’t such a dreadful thing to do,” observed the storekeeper, leaning his long figure over the counter to take note of the trouble. “I dropped bundles when I was a boy, Davie.”
“Did you?” said David, greatly relieved that a boy who grew up to be such a smart man as the village storekeeper did such a thing; and he picked up the paper bag with hope once more springing in his heart.
“Sure!” declared Mr. Atkins, “I was a great deal bigger than you be.”
“How much bigger, Mr. Atkins?” asked David, clutching his bag.
“Oh, I guess ’most a foot taller,” said Mr. Atkins, scratching his head, “an’ once I dropped a ’lasses jug.”