“I’m a freshman.” Stowell’s perplexity increased. “I thought,” the other went on, “that I could sell some of these around college. I didn’t know about you all wearing gloves. I—I guess I’ll have to give it up.” There was disappointment in his voice.
“Are you doing this to make money?” Stowell asked.
“Yes, I’m only asking sixty cents. Does that seem too much?”
Stowell thought it was a good deal too much, but he didn’t say so, and the other went on.
“They’re regular lumberman’s mittens, you know, made of best woolen yarn and mighty warm. Of course, they don’t cost me that much, but I have to make something on them.”
“Oh, that’s reasonable enough,” said Stowell, hurriedly, “and, I tell you what you do. I’m dead broke this morning, but you come in later in the week and bring me a couple of pairs and I’ll have the money for you.”
But to his surprise the other shook his head smilingly.
“You just want to help me,” he said. “You wouldn’t wear them, I guess. But I’m thankful to you.” He placed his parcel under his arm and moved toward the door.
“Well, but hold on,” cried Stowell. “Don’t be an ass! Look here— By the way, what’s your name?”
“Shult.”