The drummers got out with their sample cases at the Bolton House––Charles H. Bolton, proprietor. The farmer descended at the “Par Excellence Market,” where, as he informed the driver, he expected to dispose of a bull calf which he had finally decided “to veal.”
“Which way, ma’am?” inquired the driver, looking in at her through the door and chewing gum very fast.
“To Miss Dumont’s on Shadow Street.”
“Oh!...” Then, suddenly he knew her. “Say, wasn’t you her niece?” he demanded.
“I am Miss Dumont’s niece,” replied Palla, smiling.
“Sure! I didn’t reckonise you. Used to leave the Star on your doorstep! Been away, ain’t you? Home looks kinda good to you, even if it’s kinda lonesome––” He checked himself as though recollecting something else. “Sure! You been over in Rooshia livin’ with the Queen! There was a piece in the Star about it. Gee!” he added affably. “That was pretty soft! Some life, I bet!”
And he grinned a genial grin and climbed into his seat, chewing rapidly.
“He means to be friendly,” thought the heart-sick girl, with a shudder.
When Palla got out she spoke pleasantly to him as she paid him, and inquired about his father––a shiftless old gaffer who used, sometimes, to do garden work for her aunt.