“He told me to write things that folks asked for on the slate,” said David.
The young man broke into a laugh as much more unpleasant than that of Mr. Simeon Jones as could be imagined. Then he broke off suddenly to listen. “Somebody might be passing,” he muttered. “See here, old man, there wasn’t any need for you to tell me about your boss. I saw him drive away and I was coming in then to pay you a call; thought you might be lonesome,” and he chuckled under his breath; “then that other old party hove along, so I couldn’t get here till now. Look here!” It was impossible for Davie to obey this command any better, for he had never taken his blue eyes from the face, now just above him, as he sat on the barrel, slate in hand.
“I ain’t going to have any fooling,” the young man was saying between his teeth, and he raised one hand threateningly. “I’ll tell you that to begin with—I’ve come here for money. You can’t help yourself, for the boss is away.”
He put both dirty hands on the counter and vaulting over it, twitched open the drawer to rummage in the till.
Davie sprang down from his barrel. “You mustn’t do that,” he screamed, “that’s Mr. Atkins’ money.”
“You shut your gab.” The young man, one fist full of silver pieces and pennies, raised his head, his wicked eyes sparkling in anger.
“You mustn’t take it! It’s Mr. Atkins’ money!” David, his heart going like everything, beat on the counter with one small hand. Oh, if some customer would only come in!
“See here—you’ll get the worst beating you ever had,” declared the young man, “if you don’t hold your tongue.” He hissed out the last words and bent over the till again.
“He told me to write things that folks asked for on the slate,” said David.—Page [187].