lerk, a young man
peculiarly distasteful to Solomon, lounged forward with a toothpick
in his mouth. Mr. Peaslee had half a mind to go, but the thought of
poor Jim held him back.

"What will you have to-day, Mr. Peaslee?" inquired Willie, affably.
He winked at young Dannie Snow, who sat grinning on a keg of nails,
as much as to say, "Watch me have some fun with the old man."

"I thought mebbe I'd look at some jack-knives," said Solomon, eyeing
Willie distrustfully.

"Yes, sir, I guess you want the best, regardless of expense," said
Willie, impudently. He well understood his customer's dislike for
spending a penny. Stepping behind the counter, he drew from the
show-case and held up admiringly the most costly knife in the store.

"Here, now, what do you say to this? Very superior article. Best
horn, ten blades, best razor steel. Three-fifty, and cheap at the
price. Can't be beat this side of Boston. Just the article for you,
sir."

And he winked again at Dannie Snow, who was pink with suppressed
merriment.

"Well, now, well, now," said Solomon, taking the knife in his hand
and pretending to examine it closely. "That's a pretty knife, to be
sure,--to--be--sure. Real showy, ain't it? Looks as if 't was made
to sell--all outside and no money in the bank, like some young
fellers ye see."

Dannie Snow giggling outright, Mr. Peaslee turned and gazed at him
in mild inquiry. Young Potter turned a dull red. He was addicted to
radiant cravats and gauzy silk handkerchiefs, and from his "salary"
of eight dollars a week he did not save much.

But just the same, Mr. Peaslee had been staggered at the price.
Pretending still to examine the knife which Willie had given him, he
squinted past it at the contents of the glass show-case on which his
elbows rested. There all sorts of knives confronted him, each in its
little box, in which was stuck a card stating the price,--$1.50,
$1.25, 90c, 45c. The cheapest one would eat up the proceeds of three
dozen eggs at fifteen cents a dozen--a good price for eggs! He had
forgotten that knives cost so much.

"A good knife ain't any use to a boy," he reflected. "Break it in a
day, lose it in a week. 'T wouldn't be any real kindness to him.
Just wastin' money."

He pointed finally to a stubby, wooden-handled knife with one big
blade, marked 25c.

"There, now," said he, "that's what I call a knife. Good and strong,
and no folderol. Guarantee the steel, don't ye?"

He opened the blade and