He, however, proceeded to inspect its contents, and the moment his glance fell upon the coarse, rough cloth and he comprehended the situation a furious exclamation burst from him. He snatched the garments from the box and threw them angrily upon a chair.
“The fool!” he snarled, “he has made the biggest blunder of his life—he has made up for me the cloth I ordered for that boy, and, I suppose, has given him a suit of that fine piece of goods. Blast the man! but he shall pay dearly for it. He will never do another stitch of work for me. The idea, to pretend to think that I would wear cloth like this! He must have known better. And yet,” referring to the letter, “he says he is afraid that ‘I made a mistake in my selections, but that my directions were explicit.’ Oh, no, Abel, my friend, you can’t shove the blame off upon me in any such way; I always keep a copy of my letters, and I’ll soon prove to you that this is none of my doing.”
He went to his letter-press, drew forth his book, and turned back to the date on which he had ordered the two suits. After reading it through he began to hunt about his desk for something. Failing to find what he wanted he called out impatiently:
“Maria, Maria Kimberly, where are you? Come here. I want you.”
Presently the door leading into the kitchen was opened and the woman put her head inside the room, curtly inquiring in tones which she always assumed when the squire was out of sorts:
“What’s wanted, squire?”
Then her glance fell upon the new suit lying in a heap on a chair, whereupon her face suddenly took on a more ruddy hue and her eyes began to twinkle appreciatively.
“Did you throw away those samples of cloth that I showed you a week or more ago?” the man demanded.
“I never throw away anything o’ yourn, squire. I leave that for you to do,” said Mrs. Kimberly, somewhat loftily.
“Then where are they?” he asked impatiently.