Mr. Broadstreet embarked on the current, and with an unconsciously benevolent smile on his round face was borne half-way down the store before he could make fast to a counter.
“What can I do for you, sir?” If the girlish voice was brisk and businesslike it was at the same time undeniably pleasant.
Mr. Broadstreet started. “Why, I want some presents; Christmas presents, you know,” he said, looking down into the merry brown eyes.
“Boy or girl, sir, and how old?”
Mr. Broadstreet was fairly taken aback by her promptness. His wife always did the Christmas shopping.
“Let me see,” he began hurriedly; “two girls and a—no, I mean two boys—why, bless me,” he went on in great confusion, as her low laugh rang out among the woolly sheep with which she happened to be surrounded, “I’ve really forgotten. That is—Oh, I see; you needn’t laugh,” and Mr. Broadstreet’s own smile broadened as he spoke, “they’re not mine. I never heard of them until five minutes ago, and I declare I don’t remember which is which. At any rate there are three of them, all under seven.”
“How would a lamb do for the oldest? Real wool and natural motion?” in proof of which latter assertion she set all their heads nodding in the most violent manner, until it made her customers quite dizzy to look at them. Mr. Broadstreet picked out the biggest one. “He seems to—ah—bow more vigorously than the rest,” he said.
The girl then proceeded to display various toys and gay-colored picture-books, Mr. Broadstreet assenting to the choice in every instance, until a large, compact bundle lay on the counter, plainly marked,
“Mr. Tryson, Conductor. To be called for.”