“There ain’t nothin’, as I know of,” said the little shoemaker, looking up composedly, “an’ please to shet th’ door, Mis Goodsell.”
Mrs. Goodsell pushed the door to with her foot. “I thought you was havin’ a party by the noise,” she said, coming over to sit heavily down on the bench by David’s side. Then she whipped the shawl-ends over across her lap and stared first at the little shoemaker and then at Davie.
“We was,” said Mr. Beebe, “us two: we made quite a nice party; just big enough.”
“Who is the boy?” Mrs. Goodsell turned her heavy body as far as she could and stared worse than ever at Davie.
“That is David Pepper sitting on the bench,” said Mr. Beebe. “Now what kind o’ shoes do you want, Mis Goodsell? You can be tellin’ me, an’ then I’ll be ready to get ’em when I’m through with this piece o’ work.”
“I d’no’s I want any shoes,” said the big woman, “I thought I’d drop in an’ see what you’d got.”
“Well,” said the little shoemaker, “my business is to show folks who want shoes, not to show ’em shoes ef they don’t want any.”
“But I may want ’em ef you’ve got some I like,” said Mrs. Goodsell tartly.
As Mr. Beebe said nothing to this, but kept on with his cobbling, Mrs. Goodsell concentrated her attention on the small boy by her side.
“Who’s your folks?” she demanded. She had faded greenish eyes, and Davie could think of nothing but gooseberries. He tried not to look at them, and at last turned such a helpless glance on the little shoemaker, that Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. He had opened his mouth to ask, “And how is your folks, Mis Goodsell?” when an organ grinder suddenly struck up a tune just outside the shop door.