REUBEN MINOR was in his own room in his shirt sleeves, and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His paste pot was on the table, sheets of paper and scraps of pasteboard were on the floor, and Reuben, with a queer-shaped box before him, was in what Maria called “a brown study.”
“IN A BROWN STUDY.”
The stair door opened, and his Aunt Mary’s voice called, “Reuben!”
“Yes’m.”
“Don’t you forget those errands that you’ve got to do in town. Have you got ’em all in your mind?”
“Yes’m.”
“There’s only the eggs and the kerosene and the vinegar, you know, so you won’t need to have ’em written down—just three things.”
“All right.”
Silence for a few minutes, during which Reuben turned the box endwise and squinted at it. “Let’s see,” he said, leaning his elbow on the table and his head on his hand, “I wonder how that would do?” Then he started for his row of shelves, seized upon a good-sized book in the corner, and dived into its pages. Something was not clear. The stair door opened again, and his aunt’s voice sounded: “Reuben!”