CHAPTER VI
Time passed, after the easy-going manner of Bloomtown. Jap was sixteen, long, ungainly and stooped from bending over the case. Bill, a little older in months, but possessed of immortal youth, was stocky and rather good looking. Four years of daily intercourse had wrought a subtle change in their relations, four years of the stern and the sweet that Ellis and Flossy Hinton had brought, for the first time, into their lives.
Bill was at the table, the exchanges pushed back in a disorderly heap, as he surreptitiously figured a tough problem in bookkeeping that Flossy had given him. Jap, with furtive air, bolted the history lesson that ought to have been learned the day before. Ellis, his back to the one big window in the office, scowled over the proofs he was rattling. From time to time he peppered the air with remarks that fell like bird shot on the tough oblivion of his two assistants. At length forbearance gave way under the strain, and he said, in cold and measured tones:
"When you are unable to decipher the idea I am trying to convey, I wish that you would take me into your confidence."
Bill looked up, a grin on his round, shining face, a grin that was fixed to immobility by the fierceness of Ellis's glance.
"I note that you have injected much native humor into perfectly legitimate prose," the stern voice continued. He read:
"'Jim Blanke has a splendid assortment of Sundays.' Now please explain. You are causing the good folks of this town unnecessary worry. My copy reads, 'sundries.'"
"Jap done it," vouchsafed Bill.
"Who done this?" Ellis stressed the verbal blunder witheringly, as he pointed his pencil at the next item. It read:
"Ross Hawkins soled twenty-five yearling calves."