“No—no,” said David, clutching slate and pencil and all, and backing off to the end of the counter. “Mr. Atkins said I was to write it.” He was in mortal terror that the farmer’s big hand, now raised, would seize his last chance of ever being put in trust again in the store.
But Mr. Simeon Jones, not really being armed and equipped for much writing, either on a slate or on anything else, decided that he didn’t care to undertake any job along that line; so his big hand dropped.
“Well, you write it as I tell you,” he commanded gruffly, “or you won’t get no jobs in this store, when I tell Atkins.”
Which being exactly what David was terrified about, he began once more: “Mr. Jones wants you to bi his appuls—and—”
“Pay him cash,” shouted the farmer over David’s shoulder.
“Pay him Kash,” finished David, the pencil trembling in fear of more messages to follow.
“That will do,” said Mr. Jones, quite mollified; “it’ll clinch the business.” Then he drew off and looked at David tucking the slate in its place on the counter. “Say—did you mind when I laughed at you?”
David wanted dreadfully to stand up like a man and say “No,” but Mother Pepper had said, “always tell the truth.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I did.”
“Thunderation!” exploded the farmer, and a dull red crept up into his swarthy cheek; one of his big hands went into his pocket. “There, I ain’t a-goin’ to laugh at you no more,” and he held out a coin. “You’re a real smart boy ef you ain’t any bigger’n a pint o’ cider. There’s a dime for ye.”