David whirled around on his step-ladder.
“Where’s Mr. Atkins?” cried a farmer, whip in hand, advancing into the store.
“He’s gone to buy potatoes,” said David.
“Well, who’s in charge o’ th’ store?” demanded the man.
“Mr. Atkins told me to put down on the slate what people asked for,” said David. He wanted dreadfully to say that he was in charge of the store, but Mr. Atkins hadn’t said that.
“Oh—ho!” roared the farmer, throwing back his head to laugh. “Well, that is a good one—a little Hop o’ my Thumb like you. Ho—Ho!” David’s cheeks got very hot, and his small legs trembled under him, as he got down from the step-ladder, laying his dust-cloth on the top step, and went over to the counter.
“Mr. Atkins told me to write down what the folks wanted,” he repeated, picking up the slate.
The farmer stopped laughing and drew up to the counter, looking at him curiously.
“You tell Atkins I’ve got apples as good as th’ next one, an’ I want he should give me some money for ’em.”
David drew the slate pencil up into his fingers. O dear—what was he to write! This wasn’t anything to do with orders; but the farmer’s cold eyes were on him, and he was just getting ready to laugh again, so something must be done.