“Mis Beebe said—standin’ in th’ door o’ th’ shoe-shop as I come by,” began Mr. Bliss, leaning up against the counter.
“Don’t tell me no more,” interrupted the storekeeper, waving both sticky hands excitedly; “it’s scand’lous startin’ such tales.” Then he rushed over to the small door connecting with his house. “Ma—Ma,” he screamed, “Joel Pepper’s awful sick with the measles!”
“You don’t say!” Mrs. Atkins came to the top of the stairs, her sweeping-cap on her head and a dust-brush in her hand. “O me, O my!” she mourned. “What will Mis Pepper do now, with both of her boys took sick?”
“Well, she’s got Davie,” said the storekeeper, determined to get some comfort, and hanging to the newel post.
“Davie’s so little.” Mrs. Atkins sat down on the upper stair. “He’d help all he could, but he’s so little,” she repeated.
“David’s awful smart,” said Mr. Atkins.
“I know it; they’re all smart, them Pepper childern, but Joel’s so up an’ comin’, you can’t think of Davie somehow as takin’ hold o’ things. Seth Atkins, you’ve got ’lasses all over your trousers!”
She ran down the stairs and peered anxiously at her husband’s legs.
The storekeeper twitched away. “That’s Timothy Bliss’ fault. He scaret me so about Joe,” and he darted back into the store.