“Good morning,” responded Jimmy brightly. “Cleaning up a bit, you see, sir.”
“Yes. H’m. Well, there’s a man comes in to do that the first of the month. Washes the windows, too.”
“Whether it’s needed or not,” said Jimmy innocently.
“Sweeping makes a good deal of dust,” continued the other severely.
“Collects a good deal, too,” answered Jimmy, continuing toward the door.
Mr. Pulsifer pretended to be affected by the dust and coughed delicately. “It’s bad for the flowers,” he said querulously. “I’d rather you didn’t do it, my boy.”
He coughed again and went back to his wire enclosure. Being called “my boy” grated on Jimmy and he leaned on the handle of his broom and favored Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer with a malignant stare. Then he finished his job, placed the now almost useless broom back in the dim corner, washed his hands, dried them on his breeches for want of other means and started after his coat.
“Please close the back door if you’re through,” said Mr. Pulsifer drearily. “There’s a draft.”
Jimmy obeyed. When he had his coat on again he stationed himself behind the small show-case and looked into the street. After a while that occupation palled and he pulled a box down from a shelf and removed the lid. It was empty. So was the next one. So were all boxes in that tier. Jimmy grinned and tried the next pile. He was more fortunate. Three gray sweaters rewarded him. He took one out, examined it, held it before him and shook his head.