CHAPTER XI.
Cupid and a Mule.
The wind went shrieking through the bare attic above and singing among the boxes and barrels in the cellar below. The big show window in front groaned in a deep bass; the little window in the rear accompanied it in a high treble. The lamp, with its vague, flickering flame, cast a gloomy glare over the store, and lighted up the faces of the little group of men, seated on box, counter, keg and chair, huddled about the great center of heat.
The Chronic Loafer raised himself from his favorite pile of calicoes and turned up his coat collar.
“Shet that stove door an’ put on the draught,” he cried. “What’s the uset o’ freezin’!”
“Cold Chrisermas to morrer,” said the Storekeeper, as he banged the door shut and turned on the draught in obedience to the demand.
“Turn up the lamp,” growled the Miller. “It’s ez dark an’ gloomy ez a barn here.”
“They ain’t no uset o’ wastin’ ile,” the Storekeeper muttered as he complied with the second request.
The great egg stove roared right merrily as the flames darted up out of its heart, until its large body grew red-hot and sent forth genial rays of heat and light—the veritable sun of the narrow village universe.
“Listen to the wind! Ain’t it howlin’?” said the Loafer.