It was a bitter night, but he had no coat over his flannel
jacket. He walked straight down the store, between the dry-goods
counters, to the snug corner at the rear, where the knot of talkers sat;
nodded, without a smile, to each of them, and then asked the storekeeper
for some simple articles of food, which he wished to buy. It was Eph.
While the purchases were being put up, an awkward silence prevailed,
which the oil-suits hanging on the walls, broadly displaying their arms
and legs, seemed to mock, in dumb show.
Nothing was changed, to Eph's eyes, as he looked about. Even the
handbill of familiar pattern:
"STANDING WOOD FOR SALE.
APPLY TO J. CARTER, ADMIN'R,"
seemed to have always been there.
The village parliament remained spellbound. Mr. Adams tied up the
purchases and mildly inquired:
"Shall I charge this?"
Not that he was anxious to open an account, but that he would probably
have gone to the length of selling Eph a barrel of molasses "on tick"
rather than run any risk of offending so formidable a character.
"No," said Eph; "I will pay for the things."
And having put the packages into a canvas bag, and selected some
fish-hooks and lines from the show-case, where they lay environed by
jackknives, jewsharps, and gum-drops--dear to the eyes of his
childhood--he paid what was due, said "Good-night, William," to the
storekeeper, and walked steadily out into the night.
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