Sigismund Sloper vowed vengeance against little Jenny Hart; for she was a free spoken little thing, and made no scruple of speaking out her thoughts. He was too slow and too tardy of speech for such off hand business as theirs, and was too mulish to learn, so she fairly told him that on the first of May—three months ahead—Ira Elkado was to take his place. She cast many an anxious glance at old Hosea Bringle, wishing him out of the concern too, for he was very much in her way, and it was really hard upon her, for thus it went all day, week in and week out: “It is three cents a yard, Hojer Bringle—(she always called him Hojer)—this way, miss, that old gentleman does not know our private mark, and yet he has lived in this shop seven years.” The old man sighed, and little Jenny Hart heard him. “To be sure there is an excuse for him, as he was always at the desk when we gave credit—nine yards and a half?—yes, sir, stocks of all kinds, beautiful and well made—too high a price!—oh, no indeed—will I take eighteen shillings? no, but I’ll split the difference—Hojer Bringle, give this gentleman five shillings—Hojer Bringle examines all the three dollar notes, sir.” And so little Jenny Hart’s tongue run on, while she cast rueful glances at the old man and strove to harden her heart against him.
Ira Elkado came in at one fold of the double door as Sigismund Sloper went out at the other, and Jenny Hart laughed out in one of the customers’ face while selling him a pair of stockings. The man looked at his waistcoat and at his hands, and cast a glance at himself in the glass behind the little shop girl’s head, but as nothing was amiss he attributed it to a joyous spirit, as in reality it was. “You are merry, Jenny Hart, this fine May morning,” said he. “I suspect you are thinking of your lover.”
“Lover! oh, sir,” said Jenny Hart, casting a sly glance at Ira Elkado, as he solemnly stalked behind the counter, and, as if he had been there for years, fell to putting up a bundle of misses’ hose. “Such a lover, too,” thought Jenny Hart, as he would make,—pretty much, however, like Mr. Martin Barton,—and she cast her eye to the other end of the counter, where Martin Barton stood folding up a bundle of suspenders in the very same solemn way. Hosea Bringle, instead of taking a little girl’s penny for two needles,—he had given her nines for sixes, the paper being turned upside down when he looked at it,—was staring at the new clerk, Ira Elkado.
“Put the cent in Hojer Bringle’s hand, little girl; he is thinking”—said Jenny Hart—“here, let me stick the needles in the paper or you’ll lose them; they are tiny little needles; are you hemming fine work, my dear?”
“No, Miss Jenny Hart, mother is making a cloak—these are sixes,” said the child, “are they not?” So Jenny Hart had to go to the needle box and get out No. 6, saying—“Look here, Hojer Bringle, the numbers are all at the top; this paper, if turned up so, looks like nines; do you see now?”
Hosea Bringle sighed again, and Jenny whispered in his ear—“there are two fine pair of ducks and a huge mess of corn salad for dinner to-day, and I’ll have them at my side of the table and give you the four legs all to your own share, and all the stuffings out of two of them—precious little will I give to Ira Elkado, beside the neck and rack, or may be the drumsticks. Hosea Bringle wiped his mouth and put the needle box nicely away, pitying Ira Elkado for the poor dinner he was to get, for Hosea Bringle held the rack and drumsticks very cheap; while Ira Elkado was revelling in the thoughts of owning this very thread and needle store that day three years, with Jenny Hart for clerk and wife. No one, to look at Ira Elkado, would ever suppose that he had an excursive imagination, he looked so sober and acted so cautiously; but, oh! what a turmoil and what business was going on within. He took all the company in at a glance, and made up his mind that he would rule them all as Jenny Hart did, and her into the bargain. So he began that very moment.
“This counter is very inconvenient, Miss Jenny Hart,” said he, striking his foot against the bottom, “it ought to slope inward; it is very wearisome for you to keep at such a distance from the counter. Now, if it sloped inward—now Sigismund Sloper, he”—
Ah ha! did Ira Elkado think this was news to Jenny Hart? she had felt the inconvenience often and often, but she counted cost, and made up her mind that the house was old, the counter old, and time precious, so that it was not worth while to make a new counter, and, besides, there was no time to do it. She gave one of her peculiar stares, as if trying to comprehend what Ira Elkado was saying.
“Sigums Sloper, did you say, Ira Elkado,—he went out as you came in; I persuaded Mr. Martin Barton to change him for you because he was a fault finder; I warned him, when he came, to mind the customers; the fact is, we are such busy people that we have no time to fiddle-faddle and look out for flaws and specks. This is your money drawer—here are four places to drop money in—this for sixpenny pieces—this for shillings—this for quarters, and this for half dollars. Hojer Bringle, there, changes three dollar notes, I five, Mrs. Martin Barton ten, and Mr. Martin Barton all larger ones. Do you recollect?—to-morrow I shall tell it to you over again.” Oh, how small Ira Elkado felt, and how he hated Jenny Hart!
Little Jenny Hart did not tell him that she twitched the notes from every hand first, before the others had a chance of looking at them. In fact, she handed them to the one whose business it was to take them, with a nod or a shake of the head, if good, or bad, for she was as wise as a serpent about bank notes—and in what was she not wise?