“You must take better care of it this time, Louis,” said Peter Mactavish, as he resumed his work.
“That I shall, monsieur,” replied Louis, shouldering his goods and quitting the store, while a short, slim, active little Canadian took his place.
“Now, then, Baptiste,” said Mactavish, “you want a—”
“Blanket, monsieur,”
“Good. And—”
“A capote, monsieur.”
“And—”
“An axe—”
“Stop, stop!” shouted Harry Somerville from his desk. “Here’s an entry in Louis’s account that I can’t make out—30 something or other; what can it have been?”
“How often,” said Mactavish, going up to him with a look of annoyance—“how often have I told you, Mr. Somerville, not to leave an entry half-finished on any account!”