“Are you aware, sir,” he said at last, in impressive tones, “that my son Samuel wears the blue ribbon?”
The hardware man inquired, with an expression of affected surprise, what that had to do with the question; and further, gave it as his opinion that a bit of blue ribbon was no better than a bit of red or green ribbon if it had not something better behind it.
This latter remark, although by no means meant to soothe, had the effect of reducing Mr Twitter to a condition of sudden humility.
“There, sir,” said he, “I entirely agree with you, but I had believed—indeed it seems to me almost impossible to believe otherwise—that my poor boy had religious principle behind his blue ribbon.”
This was said in such a meek tone, and with such a woe-begone look as the conviction began to dawn that Sammy was not immaculate—that the hardware man began visibly to soften, and at last a confidential talk was established, in which was revealed such a series of irregularities on the part of the erring son, that the poor father’s heart was crushed for the time, and, as it were, trodden in the dust. In his extremity, he looked up to God and found relief in rolling his care upon Him.
As he slowly recovered from the shock, Twitter’s brain resumed its wonted activity.
“You have a number of clerks, I believe?” he suddenly asked the hardware man.
“Yes, I have—four of them.”
“Would you object to taking me through your warehouse, as if to show it to me, and allow me to look at your clerks?”
“Certainly not. Come along.”