“Oh, Mr. Atkins!” exclaimed David, quite overwhelmed.
“Yes, I did,” said the storekeeper, delighted to see the comfort this revelation gave. “An’ ’twas in th’ dusty road. Just think of that, David Pepper!”
“Can I help fill molasses jugs when people want them?” asked Davie suddenly. If that could ever be allowed, his happiness would be complete indeed.
Mr. Atkins whirled around. “Well—p’raps,” he began slowly. Then he saw David’s face. “Now I shouldn’t wonder ef you could before long learn to fill them jugs. An’ that would be a most dreadful help, David, for it’s slow work as stock still, I tell you. Now run along an’ ask your ma ef you can come an’ help me in th’ store a little now and then. You never must go into anythin’, you know, without askin’ her.”
“An’ ef ever I see a boy run,” reported Mr. Atkins that day at dinner to his wife, “’twas Davie Pepper, Ma; when I said that, his legs jest twinkled.” And the storekeeper sat back in his chair to laugh. He even forgot to ask for a second helping of pie.
“Mamsie!” Davie sprang into the little brown house, swinging his bag of Indian meal, nearly upsetting Phronsie coming to meet him, Seraphina upside down in her arms.
“Goodness me, Davie!” exclaimed Polly, coming out of the provision room, the tin pail of bread in her hand, “what is the matter?”
“Where’s Mamsie?” cried Davie, his blue eyes shining, and turning a very red face on her.
“She’s gone to Grandma Bascom’s,” said Polly, dropping the pail to seize his little calico blouse, “and do give me that bag, Davie.”
Davie gave up the bag and tore himself away from Polly’s hold. “I must ask Mamsie,” he shouted, running to the door.