“Out the back way, if you please, Mr. Price.”
Mr. Price got up deliberately from the stool which he had occupied as soon as Patience had vacated it and looked out of the front door.
“The young whelp,” he said, apostrophizing the overdressed youth with the cigarette. Then to Patience: “Dodging him, eh? Now don’t blush, girl. I don’t blame him for looking at you. You’re worth looking at. But you show mighty good sense in keeping away from him.”
“Why, Mr. Price, I—” Patience stammered.
“O, that’s all right, dodge him, keep him guessing. One of those freshies from the city, eh? Well, there’s mighty little good in ’em. Give your ma my best regards. Tell her she’s got a fine daughter. Good night.”
Patience left the store by the rear door and started briskly for her home. She had gone but a block when she heard a wagon rumbling behind her and a voice called out:
“’Lo, there, Patience, late, ain’t you?”
It was Harvey Spencer, ambitious “all round” clerk, hostler, collector for Millville’s leading grocer. He drove a roan colt which went rather skittishly. There was an older man in the wagon with him. Harvey drew up the colt beside Patience with a vociferous “Whoa.”
“Yes,” replied Patience, “I’m a little late. Lots of business these days, Harvey?”
“You bet,” he retorted, “Millville is flourishing. We’ll soon have a real city here. Oh, Miss Welcome, let me make you acquainted with my friend, Mr. Michael Grogan of Chicago.”