'W’at’s dat, chile?' inquired the woman of color in kindly tones.
'Buttercup Crisps!' stammered Crosby. 'Crisps! A few—'
'One o' dese yere breakfus' fancies, I s’pose?' came the kindly encouragement. 'An’ it soun' good, too, doan’t it? But'—she lowered her voice to a note of confidential intimacy—'dey doan’t 'low me ter transac' no business at de do', chile, no matter w’at yer offers. Dey wouldn’t trus' it!'
'Yes’m,' returned Crosby faintly, and walked down the steps.
It made him positively dizzy to think of asking that question again. But his hand rose mechanically to the folded papers under his waist, and once more a vision of a beautiful, long-tailed pony swept before his eyes.
'It said I could have her if I got started right away,' he reasoned steadily, 'and I have got started right away, so I—I guess I better keep right on.'
He looked so hot and tired when he came in to dinner, that his mother glanced at him questioningly.
'Why, Crosby, where have you been? You look perfectly roasted. Is is so hot in the sun? Well, don’t go out again this afternoon until it’s cooler.'
'I’m not—so very hot,' he assured her.
But he thought, himself, that he wouldn’t go out again right away. He had been to a good many houses that morning, but for some reason he had not a real name to show for it. He had not seen the right people! Most of them had been servants, and of course they couldn’t have bought Buttercup Crisps—if they had wanted to. No—he must begin asking for 'the lady of the house.' And he must become more familiar with the literature of his folder. Its advertising value was his chief asset.