“What is your name?” he asked, raising his blue eyes.
“Jones—Simeon Jones,” said the farmer, his big mouth twitching under his heavy beard, as he looked down at the small figure.
David began with a beating heart; but as he went on he forgot all about the farmer, thinking only of Mamsie. He mustn’t break down, for if he did, he would get no more chance to keep store for Mr. Atkins.
“Let’s see what you’ve ben writin’,” Mr. Jones slouched over the slate, as Davie laid it on the counter. “Thunder, that ain’t th’ way to put it.”
“You said you wanted some money,” said Davie, standing his ground; but his legs trembled all the same.
Mr. Simeon Jones held up the slate and squinted at the crooked letters, having hard work to keep from running into each other. “Mr. Jones wants you to give him sum munny for his appuls.”
“I ain’t a-beggin’,” he said, “an’ besides, he hain’t bought th’ apples yet. I want him to buy ’em an’ pay me cash down.” He slapped the counter with his heavy whip, then tucked it under his arm.
David reached over and got the little sponge that had wandered off by itself, the storekeeper declaring it got in the way when it dangled on the string alongside the slate pencil. Then he rubbed out everything but “Mr. Jones,” and began again, the big farmer leaning against the counter to watch the work go on.
“Mr. Jones wants munny for his appuls.”
“No—no,” roared Mr. Simeon Jones in such a tone that David, clinging to the slate pencil, jumped in dismay. “I tell you he hain’t bought ’em yit. Here, give me that ere slate an’ I’ll write it myself.”