"isn't diabod,—dode think id; it's glass, ad the chaids is pitchback."
Bevel Doak had been feeling his own hopes of employment dwindle while the pedler was stating his case. Poor Bevel had been greatly appalled by the fine jewel that glittered on the other's breast. What person of either sex could resist the gleam of that mountain of light, surrounded by knobs of light and secured in the flamboyant scarf of Mr. Bozes by a chain to the right, a chain to the left, and a chain aloft? Bevel brightened greatly as the breastpin under its wearer's avowal began to grow dim,—the diamonds dowsing their glim, and the mainstay, forestay, and bobstay transmuting themselves from gold to pinchbeck.
Brightly now thought it time to give the other the floor; so he said, "Well, Doak, Mr. Moses has told us the object of this call. How is it with you? Have you a fancy, too, for changing your business?"
"I want to make a little for mother and the children."
"You have no father?"
"No, sir. He was the carpenter that the other carpenter fell on from the top of the house in Trinity Place last summer."
"I saw 'em," Moses interjected. "Both was sbashed."
"I remember," said Brightly. "And how many children are there. Bevel?"
