Mr. Porter sprang back from her, looked at her with hot fright in his usually cool eyes, and then shrank as far away as his desk-armchair would permit.
"Miss Flanagan," he spluttered, "not so loud, please! You will alarm the store."
"I wish I could alarm it!" said Katie.
"But what—what—I don't understand——"
"Yes, you do understand, all right, all right, Mr. Porter. I know what you want; I've known it all along, an' if I hadn't liked to make a fool of you, I'd have told you long since what I tell you now: You won't get it!"
If it were possible for Mr. Porter to grow whiter than his habit, he grew whiter then.
"I shall—I shall ring for assistance!" he protested.
"No you won't; you won't dare; you'll sit there, an' write me out a recommendation an' an order for me pay—if your hand ain't shakin' too much, an' if it is, I'll write it for you."
And he did write it. After one look at her, he wrote it without a word, and "without," as Katie carefully stipulated, "any dockin' for the last offense," and as she left him she delivered one Parthian bolt.
"Remember me to the girl you start after in the mornin'," she said; "an' when you go home to-night, just give me grandmother-mother-aunt-cousin's best regards to your grown-up great-grandchildren."