Presently Duncan moved and came out of his abstraction. "I'd better get
that broom," he said slowly. "The place certainly needs some expert
manicuring before we get that new stock in.... By George, I really
begin to believe we've got a chance to do something, after all!...
"Or else I'm dreaming...."
He opened the back door and entered a narrow and dark hallway, almost
stumbling over the lowest step of a flight of stairs communicating with
the upper storey. From above he could hear a clatter of crockery,
sounds of footsteps, a woman singing softly.
"Graham's wife, I presume. Never struck me he might be married....
Well, I'll be quiet. If she catches me now, before we're introduced,
she'll take me for a burglar."
On tiptoes he found the descent to the cellar, where by the aid of a
match he discovered a floorbrush whose reasons for retirement from
active employment were most evident even to his inexpert eye. None the
less nothing better offered, and he took it back with him to the shop.
Graham's tinkering was never of a cleanly sort; the floor was thick
with a litter of rubbish--shavings, old nuts and bolts, bits of scrap
tin and metal, torn paper, charred ends of matches: an indescribable
mess. Duncan surveyed it ruefully, but with the will to do strong in
him, took off his coat, turned up his trousers, and fell to. The
disposition of the sweepings troubled him far less than the dust he
raised; obviously the only place to put it was behind the counters.
"Nobody'll see it there," he said in a glow of satisfaction, pausing
with the room half cleared. "I always wondered what they did with that
sort of truck--under the beds, I suppose. Funny Graham never thought of
this, himself--it's so blame' easy."
He resumed his labours, thrilled with the sensation of accomplishment.
"One thing at least that I can do," he mused; "never again shall I fear
starvation... so long as there's a broom handy." Absorbed he brushed
away, raising a prodigious amount of dust and utterly oblivious to the
fact that he was observed.
Two shadows moved slowly athwart the windows, to which his back was
turned, paused, moved on out of sight, returned. It was only during a
pause for breath that he became aware of the surveillance.
Straightening up, he looked, gasped and fled for the back of the store.
"Heavens!" he whispered, aghast to recognise Josie Lockwood and Angie
Tuthill, of whose ubiquitous shadows in his way he had been conscious
so frequently within the past several days. "I _thought_ I must
have made an impression.... Don't tell me they're coming in!"
Behind the counter he struggled furiously into his coat. "They are," he
said with a sinking heart; "and I'll bet a dollar my face is dirty!"
Notwithstanding these misgivings, it was a very self-possessed young
man, to all appearances, who moved sedately round the end of the
counter to greet these possible customers. His bow was a very passable
imitation of the real thing, he flattered himself; and there's no
manner of doubt but that it flattered the two prettiest and most
forward young women in Radville of that day.
"May I have the honour of waiting on you, ladies?" he inquired with all
the suavity of an accomplished salesman.
Josie and Angie sidled together, giggling and simpering, quite overcome
by his manner. A muffled "How de do?" from Angie and a half-strangled
echo of the salutation from the other were barely articulate. But
hearing them he bowed again, separately to each.
"Good-afternoon," said he, and waited in an inquiring pose.
"This--'this is Mr. Duncan, isn't it?" inquired Josie, controlling
herself.
"Yes, and you are Miss Lockwood, if I'm not mistaken?"