Yetmore, however, brushed aside the tempter, jumped into his clothes and walked off to the store, where he found the putty-faced boy anxiously awaiting his appearance in order that he himself might be off to his breakfast.
“Pht!”exclaimed the proprietor, the moment he set foot inside the store. “What’s this smell of coal oil?”
“I don’t smell it,”replied the boy.
“You don’t! Hm! I suppose you’ve got used to it. Well, get along to your breakfast.”
As the boy ran off, Yetmore walked to the back of the building. Here the scent was so strong that he was convinced the barrel must be leaking, so, seizing hold of it, he gave a mighty heave, when the empty barrel came away in his hands, as the saying is. He almost fell over.
To ascertain the nature of the leak was the work of a moment; to trail the sled to Mrs. Appleby’s back yard was the work of five minutes; but having done this, Yetmore was at fault, for, knowing well enough that neither the widow nor her son were capable of such an undertaking, he was at a loss to imagine who the culprit might be.
It was only when Tom Connor a minute later stepped into the store and arranged that story of the leaky oil-barrel which he had described as being “agreeable”to Yetmore, that the storekeeper arrived at a true understanding of the whole matter. To say that he was enraged would be to put it too mildly, and, as always seems to be the case, the fact that he, himself, had been in the wrong to begin with, only exasperated him the more.
The result was what any one might have expected.
Hardly had Connor turned the corner out of sight, than there appeared, “snooping”up the street, that sheep in wolfs clothing, Long John Butterfield. Instantly Yetmore’s resolution was taken. Seizing a broom, he stepped outside and made pretense to sweep the sidewalk, and as Long John, with a casual nod, sauntered past, the angry storekeeper caught his eye and whispered:
“I’ve reconsidered. Go ahead.”