"Ah-yes-no-fifty-sixty-Well, I declare! Not thar! Confound it! Why didn't
ye tell me we were out before? Why did ye wait till the last spool was
gone afore sayin' a word about it?"
"I've only been here a week," replied the clerk, "and how could I know you
were out. No one has called for number forty thread since I've been here."
Farrington was beaten, and was forced to swallow his anger as best he
could. It was most aggravating to be thus humiliated in the presence of
this woman. He strode across the room, and stood with his back to the
stove, wondering how he could get even with his clerk. He would discharge
him. "No, that wouldn't do. It was hard to get a man to stay with him, and
this was a good worker. Anyway, he must be taught his place, and not
answer back. He would let him know that he owned the store.
"Give me my mail, please."
Farrington started, and turning, beheld a little lad standing by his side.
"Mail! whose mail?" he demanded, glad of an excuse to give vent to his
anger. "What's yer name? I don't know anything about _my_ mail."
"I want Parson John's mail," persisted the boy.
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