hop o’ my thumb

“now, david, ef you warn’t here,” said mr. atkins, “i couldn’t go off this morning.”

“couldn’t you, mr. atkins?” said david happily, over in the corner dusting the cans of peas and

beans piled on the shelves, and he whirled around, the dust-cloth in his hand.

“no, never in all this world,” the storekeeper smote his hands together smartly. “now you see, davie,

what a help you be to me.”

“i’m so glad i’m a help to you, mr. atkins,” cried davie, the color all over his face, and his heart

going like a trip-hammer.

“i’ve got to go over to simon beeton’s farm to see about them potatoes,” said mr. atkins, “for he’d

cheat me out of my eye-teeth ef i bought ’em without seein’. an’ now i can leave so easy in my

mind, davie, seein’ you are here.”

davie’s bosom swelled, and he stood quite still. oh, how glad mamsie will be! and how good it was

that mr. atkins’ eye-teeth were now not in any danger.

“an’ you can take th’ orders, david,” said mr. atkins, hurrying over to the counter to pick up the

slate; “you can write so nice an’ plain now, that i’ll know all what folks want when i get back.”

david longed to ask, “can’t i give ’em the things they want?” but mother pepper had told him the

first morning that he went to the grocery store, not to ask mr. atkins if he might do anything, but to

wait to be told.

“an’ some time—maybe the next time i go tradin’, you may wait on th’ customers,” said mr. atkins

encouragingly, “so you must learn all you can, david.”

david smothered a sigh, but he stood quite tall. “i’ll do everything i can, mr. atkins,” he said.

“that’s right, an’ ef anythin’ extry comes up, you run into th’ house for mis atkins.”

“yes, i will,” promised david, feeling sure that he would understand if he gave his whole mind to it.

“well, i must be off,” cried the storekeeper with an eye to the old clock on the shelf above the cans of

peas and beans, and the door slammed as he hurried into the house.

david stood still to draw a long breath and look around. he was actually left in charge of mr. atkins’

store!

for just one minute he couldn’t believe it, then the joyful truth rushed over him. he wanted to run

over and practise writing on the slate just as he had been doing every day when there wasn’t anything

that mr. atkins set as a task. but now to-day it was different.

“you dust down them shelves, davie,” the storekeeper had said that very morning, “they look mortal

bad, an’ old mis shaw kept starin’ ’em all over yest’day, an’ she looked ‘shif’less,’ though she didn’t

say it, all th’ time she was in the store. an’ i’m afraid she’ll think everything dusty, jest because i

hain’t had no time to move them pesky cans.”

so as dusting the shelves was the task set for him now, why he must keep at it. and david turned his

back on the beloved slate lying on the counter with the slate pencil dangling off by its string.

“if i could only have a slate all my own,” said david to himself, as he began again on the lower shelf,

patiently chasing every bit of dust from it, and moving each tin can carefully to one side. “perhaps i

will, some time.” he had finished that shelf and looked up to the next one. “i must get the step-

ladder,” he said, “for mr. atkins told me to dust ’em all.”

and presently he was mounted up there, dust-cloth in hand, when a voice back of him called, “hello

—hello, there!”

david whirled around on his step-ladder.

“where’s mr. atkins?” cried a farmer, whip in hand, advancing into the store.

“he’s gone to buy potatoes,” said david.

“well, who’s in charge o’ th’ store?” demanded the man.

“mr. atkins told me to put down on the slate what people asked for,” said david. he wanted

dreadfully to say that he was in charge of the store, but mr. atkins hadn’t said that.

“oh—ho!” roared the farmer, throwing back his head to laugh. “well, that is a good one—a little

hop o’ my thumb like you. ho—ho!” david’s cheeks got very hot, and his small legs trembled

under him, as he got down from the step-ladder, laying his dust-cloth on the top step, and went over

to the counter.

“mr. atkins told me to write down what the folks wanted,” he repeated, picking up the slate.

the farmer stopped laughing and drew up to the counter, looking at him curiously.

“you tell atkins i’ve got apples as good as th’ next one, an’ i want he should give me some money

for ’em.”

david drew the slate pencil up into his fingers. o dear—what was he to write! this wasn’t anything

to do with orders; but the farmer’s cold eyes were on him, and he was just getting ready to laugh

again, so something must be done.

“what is your name?” he asked, raising his blue eyes.

“jones—simeon jones,” said the farmer, his big mouth twitching under his heavy beard, as he looked

down at the small figure.

david began with a beating heart; but as he went on he forgot all about the farmer, thinking only of

mamsie. he mustn’t break down, for if he did, he would get no more chance to keep store for mr.

atkins.

“let’s see what you’ve ben writin’,” mr. jones slouched over the slate, as davie laid it on the

counter. “thunder, that ain’t th’ way to put it.”

“you said you wanted some money,” said davie, standing his ground; but his legs trembled all the

same.

mr. simeon jones held up the slate and squinted at the crooked letters, having hard work to keep

from running into each other. “mr. jones wants you to give him sum munny for his appuls.”

“i ain’t a-beggin’,” he said, “an’ besides, he hain’t bought th’ apples yet. i want him to buy ’em an’

pay me cash down.” he slapped the counter with his heavy whip, then tucked it under his arm.

david reached over and got the little sponge that had wandered off by itself, the storekeeper declaring

it got in the way when it dangled on the string alongside the slate pencil. then he rubbed out

everything but “mr. jones,” and began again, the big farmer leaning against the counter to watch the

work go on.

“mr. jones wants munny for his appuls.”

“no—no,” roared mr. simeon jones in such a tone that david, clinging to the slate pencil, jumped in

dismay. “i tell you he hain’t bought ’em yit. here, give me that ere slate an’ i’ll write it myself.”

“no—no,” said david, clutching slate and pencil and all, and backing off to the end of the counter.

“mr. atkins said i was to write it.” he was in mortal terror that the farmer’s big hand, now raised,

would seize his last chance of ever being put in trust again in the store.

but mr. simeon jones, not really being armed and equipped for much writing, either on a slate or on

anything else, decided that he didn’t care to undertake any job along that line; so his big hand

dropped.

“well, you write it as i tell you,” he commanded gruffly, “or you won’t get no jobs in this store, when

i tell atkins.”

which being exactly what david was terrified about, he began once more: “mr. jones wants you to bi

his appuls—and—”

“pay him cash,” shouted the farmer over david’s shoulder.

“pay him kash,” finished david, the pencil trembling in fear of more messages to follow.

“that will do,” said mr. jones, quite mollified; “it’ll clinch the business.” then he drew off and

looked at david tucking the slate in its place on the counter. “say—did you mind when i laughed at

you?”

david wanted dreadfully to stand up like a man and say “no,” but mother pepper had said, “always

tell the truth.”

“yes,” he said slowly, “i did.”

“thunderation!” exploded the farmer, and a dull red crept up into his swarthy cheek; one of his big

hands went into his pocket. “there, i ain’t a-goin’ to laugh at you no more,” and he held out a coin.

“you’re a real smart boy ef you ain’t any bigger’n a pint o’ cider. there’s a dime for ye.”

david jumped back as if shot, and put his hands behind him.

“take it,” urged mr. simeon jones, pushing the dime nearer.

“mamsie wouldn’t like it,” was all that davie could manage to say.

“mamsie—who’s him?” demanded the farmer.

“she’s our mother,” said davie, keeping his hands behind him.

“saltpeter!” ejaculated mr. simeon jones; “well then i s’pose you can’t take this ’ere dime, ef she

wouldn’t like it, eh?”

“no,” said david, quite happy that he was at last understood.

“well, i shall tell atkins you’ve done fust-rate,” said the farmer, slouching to the door. then he went

out with another curious look at david, got into his big wagon and drove off.

davie went back to the step-ladder, climbed up and wiped all the shelves. he wanted to sing, but that

wasn’t the way, he was quite sure, to keep a grocery store. so he shut his lips tightly together, but his

blue eyes shone as the dust-cloth went busily on its way into all the corners. at last it was all done,

and every one of the tin cans of peas and beans in neat rows were in their places. then he got down

from the step-ladder and gazed at them all in great delight.

“now i can practise my writing on the slate,” he cried joyfully. and scampering over to a barrel of

sugar standing by the counter, he got on it, slate in hand, and fell to laboriously forming all the best

letters that polly had showed him how to make.

“i must be careful not to rub out ‘mr. jones,’” he said. so he laid a paper lying on the counter ready

for a bundle to be tied up, between the farmer’s message and his knees, and presently he was lost to

all but the blissful prospect of some time being able to write things as beautifully as polly herself.

the first thing he knew the door to the grocery store was slowly opened, and davie lifted his head.

a young man stepped softly in. he wasn’t the kind that was seen around badgertown, and davie

didn’t like his looks in the least.

“well, old man,” said the newcomer, drawing near to david’s barrel and looking him all over with a

pair of evil eyes, “where’s the boss?”

“i don’t know what you mean,” said david.

“why, the boss who runs this store,” the young man flirted a pair of long and grimy fingers

comprehensively.

“he isn’t here,” said david, not taking his blue eyes from the face that now he liked less than ever.

“and he’s left you to take charge of the she-bang?”

“i don’t know what that is,” said david.

“the store—the store,” the visitor cried impatiently, and threw his dirty fingers about more recklessly

than ever. then he snapped them in david’s face.

“he told me to write things that folks asked for on the slate,” said david.

the young man broke into a laugh as much more unpleasant than that of mr. simeon jones as could

be imagined. then he broke off suddenly to listen. “somebody might be passing,” he muttered. “see

here, old man, there wasn’t any need for you to tell me about your boss. i saw him drive away and i

was coming in then to pay you a call; thought you might be lonesome,” and he chuckled under his

breath; “then that other old party hove along, so i couldn’t get here till now. look here!” it was

impossible for davie to obey this command any better, for he had never taken his blue eyes from the

face, now just above him, as he sat on the barrel, slate in hand.

“i ain’t going to have any fooling,” the young man was saying between his teeth, and he raised one

hand threateningly. “i’ll tell you that to begin with—i’ve come here for money. you can’t help

yourself, for the boss is away.”

he put both dirty hands on the counter and vaulting over it, twitched open the drawer to rummage in

the till.

davie sprang down from his barrel. “you mustn’t do that,” he screamed, “that’s mr. atkins’ money.”

“you shut your gab.” the young man, one fist full of silver pieces and pennies, raised his head, his

wicked eyes sparkling in anger.

“you mustn’t take it! it’s mr. atkins’ money!” david, his heart going like everything, beat on the

counter with one small hand. oh, if some customer would only come in!

“see here—you’ll get the worst beating you ever had,” declared the young man, “if you don’t hold

your tongue.” he hissed out the last words and bent over the till again.

“he told me to write things that folks asked for on the slate,” said david.—page 187.

david, in mortal terror that whatever he did, he couldn’t keep mr. atkins’ money from being carried

off, cast another imploring glance at the door for a possible customer. no one was in sight,

badgertown street in front of the store being free from all pedestrians, and there wasn’t a wagon to be

seen. then mr. atkins’ words flashed upon him, “if anythin’ extry comes up, you run into the house

for mis atkins.”

this was certainly “somethin’ extry,” and it was quite time to run into the house and call mrs. atkins.

he made one leap for the little door that shut off the storekeeper’s home, and the first thing he knew,

he was seized violently from behind and thrown in a heap to the floor.

david could not hear the words—he only knew that the awful eyes were glaring at him, and he shut

his own so that he could not see, as the young man hissed out something. at last he made out, “no,

you don’t, my fine sir. i’ll attend to you before i go.” then he was dragged off to a corner, thrown

behind some bags of oats, and tied fast to a rope hanging from the neck of one. “i guess you won’t

run much with one of them bags at your heels,” and the young man surveyed his work with a grin.

“da—vid!” rang out the voice of mrs. atkins. “where are you?”

the young man on his way back to the till started and pricked up his ears.

“oh,—she’ll be killed!” david screamed. “don’t come in!” the little door was flung wide, and mrs.

atkins, all in a hurry as dinner was waiting, got herself into the store just in time to see a tall figure

flying past and out into badgertown street.

“my sakes!” she ejaculated. then she gave a wild look around. “david, where be ye?”

“here,” said david, behind the bags of oats. “oh, mrs. atkins, did he take any?”

“for th’ land sakes—david pepper!” the storekeeper’s wife knelt down by his side. when she saw

the rope she was quite overcome, and she fumbled helplessly at the knots.

“did he—did he?” implored davie in great distress, “take any of mr. atkins’ money?”

“money?” mrs. atkins hopped to her feet in great alarm, and scuttled over to get behind the counter.

“my soul an’ body!” she exclaimed, pawing among the loose dimes and nickels and pennies dropped

by the young man when he sprang for david.

“did he?” implored davie. “oh, do tell me, mrs. atkins—did he take any money?”

“it looks as if he’d ben interrupted.” the storekeeper’s wife drew a long sigh of relief, as she settled

the coins back into the till, and slammed to the drawer. “i don’t b’lieve he got a single cent, david

pepper,” she said, coming back to him.

“oh, i’m so glad,” said davie.

“an’ now i’ll untie you,” she said, getting down on her knees. “my gracious!” and she shook with

fright, “sech a risk as you’ve run!”

“i’m so glad he didn’t get any money,” breathed davie blissfully.

“an’ you’ve saved it,” mrs. atkins, getting the last knot out, threw the end of the ropes off, “just

think of that, david pepper!”

david’s blue eyes shone. “i wish i could have kept him,” he said, as he got up to his feet.

“land!—don’t say that—you’ve done splendid!” said mrs. atkins, and she shivered as she got up.