“Can’t say,” answered Chub, carelessly.
“But he might be angry and make trouble.”
“Let him try it,” said Chub, grimly. “I’ll take care of him if he tries to make a fuss.”
At that moment a form appeared at the door.
“Maybe it’s Mr. Benson,” muttered Chub, as he strolled to meet him.
The newcomer was a little wisp of a man, with a nervous smile and a diffident manner and a thin, high-pitched voice.
“Good afternoon,” said Chub, affably.
“Good afternoon, sir, good afternoon,” squeaked Mr. Benson. “Nice weather for the time of year.”
“Some of the best,” answered Chub, cheerfully. “Can I do anything for you, sir?”
“Er—if you please. My wife sent me over for—for two quarts of onions. She—she was over awhile back and didn’t have the money with her.” He placed eight cents on the counter and smiled ingratiatingly, rubbing his hands nervously together.
“Right here,” said Chub, handing him the bag. “Eight cents; quite correct, thank you. Nothing else to-day?”
