She took this for a pleasantry, and held out her hand for the money. At the same moment he felt a spur dig into his boot; the situation was become exceedingly unpleasant to his fellow-missioners. What was the girl up to, anyway? And what in thunder did she mean by locking them in? Beany Johnson came to the rescue.
“I say, why, this here was—a—er—kinder joke,” he explained sheepishly, and feeling dreadfully uncomfortable.
She looked at him, puzzled.
“I don’t see it,” she remarked. Literally she didn’t. “What is the joke?”
“Why—er—all this here—” He waved his hand over the pile of ribbons—“this here pink ribbon hold-up—why, it was all a—er—kinder joke, without meanin’ any offense,” he trailed off, blushing.
“But I don’t see it,” she repeated, still with her puzzled look.
“Well, it is, anyway,” he assured her, desperately. “It’s what it is all right—a joke.”
For a moment after this brutal confession they thought comprehension dawned in her eyes; then she murmured, looking critically at the ribbon: “But I’m sure I measured it all right; I never make mistakes on ribbons. Mrs. Ingersoll will tell you that. I was very particular as I went along. And I know I counted it right—thirty-seven dollars, and the remnant, five cents; but I threw that off; I didn’t charge it on the slip.” She glanced at the slip to make sure on that point.
“Oh, you’re all right,” Hank chipped in courageously. “We ain’t kickin’ on yer measurin’. An’ the thirty-seven—it’s all right, too; but—why—er—”
“I gave you all-silk ribbon, no cotton-back,” she interrupted. “I looked at every piece before I undid it. There’s some cotton-back in the store for cheap trimmings and flower ties, but I was very particular to give you the same as you started out with—that pink Mr. McQueed took first.” She began rummaging the pile for the original sample.