'Would you like,' began Crosby, his voice growing so faint that he had to swallow to get it back again; 'would you like—some Buttercup Crisps?'
'Like some what?' bawled the man.
Crosby had an idea that he might get arrested if he asked that again, at least if he didn’t make some variation, so he launched desperately into another construction.
'It’s something—to eat! For breakfast! Buttercup Crisps! It comes—in boxes.'
'Well, what about it?' questioned the man behind the counter distractedly.
'I—do you—do you want some?' continued Crosby bravely.
'No, I don’t,' declared the man behind the counter with both strength and finality. '’Twouldn’t make any difference what it came in! I’m so overrun now with these breakfast concoctions that there ain’t room left for anything else!'
'Yes, sir,' returned Crosby politely, and walked out to the street again.
It was not a very promising beginning, to be sure, but it was a relief to have that first dreadful plunge over. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after that. And he marched on to the next house, which was a house and not a store. A middle-aged colored woman, in an ample white apron, came to the door and stood smiling at him while he screwed his courage into words again.
'Would you like—would you like—to try a few Buttercup Crisps?' he asked, with a fleeting consciousness that he had made a really elegant effort.