On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Mr. Jeremiah A. Amidon found it convenient to visit the market-house as early as seven-thirty (in spite of pressing duties at the store), to make sure, he said, that Nan, and the farmhand who drove her in and helped arrange the stock, had safely passed all the railroad crossings on the way to town. Jerry was a consoling person and unobtrusively thoughtful and helpful. And in his way he was almost as keen as Eaton. Jerry did not require explanations, and nothing is so wholly satisfactory as a friend who understands without being told.
“Little girl, if your eggs are guaranteed under the Pure Food Act, I’ll take one—the large size.”
“You’ll find the hard-boiled eggs at the lunch counter in the next aisle, little boy,” Nan answered. “How is John Cecil?”
“Working himself to death. You’ve driven him to it!”
“I hope you two are not abusing me; how about it?”
“No; not vocally. Cecil’s shut up in his office every night, getting ready to clean up those cousins of Farley’s down on the river, but he doesn’t say anything. Look here, Nan, we’ve got a line of cold cream and other toilet marvels—stuff you could handle here as a side line. Let us send you up a bunch to put next to that pink jelly. It’s high grade and we’ll make it to you at the right price.”
“Not on your life, Jerry. Drugs and hand-made country butter can’t associate. You’d better run down to your own little shop now and go to work.”
After his morning inspection he was likely to reappear at lunch time, to see her for a moment before she left for the farm; and he assisted in balancing her cash when she confessed that it wouldn’t “gee.” His pride in her was enormous; he was satisfied that there was no other girl to compare with her.
Jerry’s admiration was so obviously genuine and supported by so deep an awe and reverence that no girl could have helped liking it. And Jerry was unfailingly amusing; his airs and graces, his attempts to wear a little learning lightly, were wholly transparent and invited the chaff he welcomed. Nan’s feeling, dating from the beginning of their acquaintance, that their common origin in the back streets of Belleville established a tie between them had grown steadily. In all her late perplexities and self-questioning she had found herself wondering constantly what Jerry would say, and he had supported her warmly in her rejection of the estate.
He had from the first confided his ambitions to her and they were worthy ones. He not only meant to get on, but he meant to overcome as far as possible his lack of early advantages. He steadfastly spent an hour at his Latin every night before he went to bed, with only an occasional lift from the busy Eaton. “As long as I’ve tackled it, I might as well keep it up,” he remarked apologetically. “Cecil says my English is so bad, I’d better learn a few foreign languages to make me respectable!”