"I'll give you a fair share o' the profits, John," father would say, slyly.
Well, things went on as it greased; the girls mostly stayed away—the Babbletown girls, for they had guilty consciences, I suspect; and in February there came a thaw. I stood looking out of the store window one day; the snow had melted in the street, and right over the stones that had been laid across the road for a walk, there was a great puddle of muddy water about two yards wide and a foot deep. I soon saw Hetty Slocum tripping across the street; she came to the puddle and stood still; the soft slush was heaped up on either side—she couldn't get around and she couldn't go through. My natural gallantry got the better of my resentment, and I went out to help her over, notwithstanding what she had said when I was under the counter. Planting one foot firmly in the center of the puddle and bracing the other against the curb-stone, I extended my hand.
"If you're good at jumping, Miss Slocum," said I, "I'll land you safely on this side."
"Oh," said she, roguishly, "Mr. Flutter, can I trust you?" and she reached out her little gloved hand.
All my old embarrassment rushed over me. I became nervous at the critical moment when I should have been cool. I never could tell just how it happened—whether her glove was slippery, or my foot slipped on a piece of ice under slush, or what—but the next moment we were both of us sitting down in fourteen inches of very cold, very muddy water.
THE NEXT MOMENT WE WERE BOTH OF US SITTING DOWN IN FOURTEEN INCHES OF VERY COLD, VERY MUDDY WATER.
My best beaver hat flew off and was run over by a passing sled, while a little dog ran away with Hetty's seal-skin muff.
I floundered around in that puddle for about two minutes, and then I got up. Hetty still sat there. She was white, she was so mad.
"I might a known better," said she. "Let me alone. I'd sit here forever, before I'd let you help me up."