“But,” began the clerk.
“It's all right,” said Anderson. He dipped his pen in the ink and went on with the letter he was writing. The clerk retreated with a long, anxious, wondering look, which the other man felt.
The Hungarian girl plodded smiling forth with the promise to have the groceries sent at once. Stepping flat-footedly and heavily through the door, she caught her cotton skirt on a nail, and, lo! a rent. The boy, who was a gallant soul for all femininity in need, hurried to her aid with some pins gathered from the lapel of his gingham coat. Little Marie, with a coquettish shake of her head and a blush and smile began repairing the damage.
“It is the cloth that is easy broke,” explained she, when she lifted her suffused but still smiling face, “and I a new one will have when I haf my money, my vage.” With that Marie was gone, her poor gown scalloping around her heavy, backward heels, her smiling glance of artless coquetry over her shoulder to the last, and the boy and the old clerk looked at each other. The boy whistled.
Just then the delivery-wagon drove up in front of the store. The driver, who was a young fellow in the first stages of pulmonary consumption, got down with weakly alacrity from the seat and came in to get the new orders. He coughed as he entered, but he looked radiant. He was driving the delivery-wagon in the hope of recovering his health by out-of-door life, and he was, or flattered himself that he was, perceptibly gaining.
“Where's the next delivery?” he inquired, hoarsely.
“Wait a minute,” said the old clerk, and again invaded the office.
“They 'ain't paid their hired girl,” he said, in a whisper. “Had we better—”
“Better what?” said Anderson, impatiently, though he looked confused.
“Better send them things to the Carrolls'?”