Jehoshaphat nodded.
“It all depends,” said Wull. “You’re wonderful deep in debt, Jehoshaphat.” The trader had now command of himself. “I been lookin’ up your account,” he went on, softly. “You’re so wonderful far behind, Jehoshaphat, on account o’ high livin’ an’ Christmas presents, that I been thinkin’ I might do the business a injury by givin’ you more credit. I can’t think o’ myself, Jehoshaphat, in this matter. ’Tis a business matter; an’ I got t’ think o’ the business. You sees, Jehoshaphat, eighteen dollars more credit—”
“Eight,” Jehoshaphat corrected.
“Eighteen,” the trader insisted.
Jehoshaphat said nothing, nor did his face express feeling. He was looking stolidly at the big key of the storehouse.
“The flour depends,” Wull proceeded, after a thoughtful pause, through which he had regarded the gigantic Jehoshaphat with startled curiosity, “on what I thinks the business will stand in the way o’ givin’ more credit t’ you.”
“No, sir,” said Jehoshaphat.
Wull put down his pen, slipped from the high stool, and came close to Jehoshaphat. He was mechanical and slow in these movements, as though all at once perplexed, given some new view, which disclosed many and strange possibilities. For a moment he leaned against the counter, legs crossed, staring at the floor, with his long, scrawny right hand smoothing his cheek and chin. It was quiet in the office, and warm, and well-disposed, and sunlight came in at the window.
Soon the trader stirred, as though awakening. “You was sayin’ eight, wasn’t you?” he asked, without looking up.
“Eight, sir.”