“Certain,” assented Mr. Ball, eagerly, “certain you do.” It did not seem to occur to him that it was unfair to make him responsible for the scurvy ingratitude of his townsmen. He stepped gingerly down into the dust and climbed up on the tool box.
“Look out,” said Mr. Crewe, “don't scratch the varnish. What is it?”
Mr. Ball shifted obediently to the rubber-covered step, and bent his face to his patron's ear.
“It's railrud,” he said.
“Railroad!” shouted Mr. Crewe, in a voice that made the grocer clutch his arm in terror. “Don't pinch me like that. Railroad! This town ain't within ten miles of the railroad.”
“For the love of David,” said Mr. Ball, “don't talk so loud, Mr. Crewe.”
“What's the railroad got to do with it?” Mr. Crewe demanded.
Mr. Ball glanced around him, to make sure that no one was within shouting distance.
“What's the railrud got to do with anything in this State?” inquired Mr. Ball, craftily.
“That's different,” said Mr. Crewe, shortly, “I'm a corporation man myself. They've got to defend 'emselves.”