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.
[Illustration: “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.