“He don’t need the money like I do,” objected Mr. Duff. “I got a family, I have. I’m a poor man. Times is hard.”
“Well, then, for the love of mud, why don’t you do it?” cried Willard. Mr. Duff turned and viewed him in mild surprise.
“I ain’t said I wouldn’t, have I?” he asked complainingly.
“No; and you haven’t said you would! Now, which is it?”
“Twenty-five cents apiece, you said?” he inquired, as he backed the wagon up to the platform. Willard nodded. Mr. Duff sighed as he tossed the reins to the horse’s back. “I s’pose I’ll have to do it,” he said dolefully.
The sample-cases reached Dunlop and Toll’s ten minutes late, for Mr. Duff had never learned to do anything in a hurry. But the traveling man had evidently not relied very implicitly on Tom’s promise to get them there inside of twenty minutes and seemed quite satisfied. He handed Willard fifty cents and Willard added two dimes to it and passed the amount over to Mr. Duff.
“Now remember,” he said sternly, “you’re to hustle when I give you any checks. By the way, if you aren’t at the corner of Walnut Street, where can I find you?”
Mr. Duff shook his head slowly. “I dunno. I might be most anywhere, I s’pose. Just you write the order on the slate and I’ll see it.”
“Oh, you have a slate, have you? Where is it?”