“He can’t eat the whole stock,” said Daggett, “and upsetting a boy’s stomach is not much of an upset anyway. It don’t take long to right it.”
Once in a while Daggett would suggest to Joe that if he were in his place he wouldn’t eat too much of that green candy. He supposed it was pure; he didn’t mean to sell any but pure candy if he knew it, but it might be just as well for him to go slow. Generally he took a paternal delight in watching the growing boy eat his stock in trade.
That afternoon Joe was working on a species of hard sweet which distended his cheeks, and nearly deprived him temporarily of the power of speech, while the people seeking their mail came in. There was never much custom while mail-sorting was going on, and Joe sucked blissfully.
Then Jim Dodge entered and spoke to him. “Hullo, Joe,” he said.
Joe nodded, speechless.
Jim seated himself on a stool, and lit his pipe.
Joe eyed him. Jim was a sort of hero to him on account of his hunting fame. As soon as he could control his tongue, he addressed him:
“Heard the news?” said he, trying to speak like a man.
“What news?”
“Old Andrew Bolton’s got out of prison and come back. He’s crazy, too.”