“I must be careful not to rub out ‘Mr. Jones,’” he said. So he laid a paper lying on the counter ready for a bundle to be tied up, between the farmer’s message and his knees, and presently he was lost to all but the blissful prospect of some time being able to write things as beautifully as Polly herself.
The first thing he knew the door to the grocery store was slowly opened, and Davie lifted his head.
A young man stepped softly in. He wasn’t the kind that was seen around Badgertown, and Davie didn’t like his looks in the least.
“Well, old man,” said the newcomer, drawing near to David’s barrel and looking him all over with a pair of evil eyes, “where’s the boss?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said David.
“Why, the boss who runs this store,” the young man flirted a pair of long and grimy fingers comprehensively.
“He isn’t here,” said David, not taking his blue eyes from the face that now he liked less than ever.
“And he’s left you to take charge of the she-bang?”
“I don’t know what that is,” said David.
“The store—the store,” the visitor cried impatiently, and threw his dirty fingers about more recklessly than ever. Then he snapped them in David’s face.