He was a little boy again. He slept at night as little boys sleep. He played with Hero along the route—taught him some new tricks. His jaw relaxed from its grown-upishness.
It was funny about those Stuarts. Sometimes he saw Mr. Stuart, but never anybody else; the place seemed shut up. But each day the little package was there, and every day he took it to Pleasant street and left it at the door there—that place seemed shut up, too.
When it was well into the second week Stubby ventured to say something about the next fifty cents.
The man fumbled in his pockets. Something in his face was familiar to experienced Stubby. It suggested a having to have two dollars and a half by August first and only having a dollar and a quarter state of mind.
“I haven't got the change. Pay you at the end of next week for the whole business. That all right?”
Stubby considered. “I've got to have it before the first of August,” he said.
At that the man laughed—funny kind of laugh, it was, and muttered something. But he told Stubby he would have it before the first.
It bothered Stubby. He wished the man had given it to him then. He would rather get it each week and keep it himself. A little of the grown-up look stole back.
After that he didn't see Mr. Stuart, and one day, a week or so later, the package was not in the box and a man who wore the kind of clothes Stubby's father wore came around the house and asked him what he was doing.
Stubby was wary. “Oh, I've got a little job I do for Mr. Stuart.”