things. Some day he'd say them right out,
leaving his victim not only in the utmost confusion but in black despair
of ever finding another clerk one half as efficient as Merton Gill.

The afternoon wore to closing time in a flurry of trade, during which,
as Merton continued to behave sanely, the apprehension of his employer
in a measure subsided. The last customer had departed from the emporium.
The dummies were brought inside. The dust curtains were hung along
the shelves of dry goods. There remained for Merton only the task of
delivering a few groceries. He gathered these and took them out to the
wagon in front. Then he changed from his store coat to his street coat
and donned a rakish plush hat.

Amos was also changing from his store coat to his street coat and
donning his frayed straw hat.

"See if you can't keep from actin' crazy while you make them
deliveries," said Amos, not uncordially, as he lighted a choice cigar
from the box which he kept hidden under a counter.

Merton wished to reply: "See here, Mr. Gashwiler, I've stood this abuse
long enough! The time has come to say a few words to you--" But aloud he
merely responded, "Yes, sir!"

The circumstance that he also had a cigar from the same box, hidden not
so well as Amos thought, may have subdued his resentment. He would light
the cigar after the first turn in the road had carried him beyond the
eagle eye of its owner.

The delivery wagon outside was drawn by an elderly horse devoid of
ambition or ideals. His head was sunk in dejection. He was gray at the
temples, and slouched in the shafts in a loafing attitude, one
forefoot negligently crossed in front of the other. He aroused himself
reluctantly and with apparent difficulty when Merton Gill seized the
reins and called in commanding tones, "Get on there, you old skate!" The
equipage moved off under the gaze of Amos, who was locking the doors of
his establishment.

Turning the first corner into a dusty side street, Merton dropped the
reins and lighted the filched cigar. Other Gashwiler property was sacred
to him. From all the emporium's choice stock he would have abstracted
not so much as a pin; but the Gashwiler cigars, said to be "The World's
Best 10c Smoke," with the picture of a dissipated clubman in evening
dress on the box cover, were different, in that they were pointedly
hidden from Merton. He cared little for cigars, but this was a
challenge; the old boy couldn't get away with anything lik