The dealer in blue mittens flushed, whether with embarrassment or pleasure Stowell couldn’t tell, and paused on his way down the granite steps.
“Not very well,” he answered. “I—I’ve sold three pairs so far.”
“Hard luck,” answered Stowell. “Don’t forget mine, will you?”
“Oh, no; I’m—I’ll bring them to-morrow. Do you want them long or short?”
“Er—well, what would you suggest?” asked Stowell gravely.
“The long ones keep your wrists warmer, of course,” said Shult.
“Of course, I’ll take that kind,” Stowell decided. “I’ve a friend, by the way, fellow named Reeves, who said he’d take a couple of pairs. He was going to look you up. Seen him yet?”
“No, I haven’t. I could—I could call on him if you think he’d like me to?”
“No, it wouldn’t pay; you’d never find him in. I’ll tell him to look you up. Where’s your joint?”