receive the money, as though he doubted his own honesty. His lank forefinger, with the prominent joints, ran down the bright little calendar ("Clack's Cottons last for All Time"). "One—two—three; three weeks an' a day!" said Winslow, staring. "March! Only three weeks and a day. It can't be."
"Tea, dear," said Mrs. Winslow, opening the door with the glass window and the white blind that communicated with the parlour.
"One minute," said Winslow, and began unlocking the desk.
An irritable old gentleman, very hot and red about the face, and in a heavy fur-lined cloak, came in noisily. Mrs. Winslow vanished.
"Ugh!" said the old gentleman. "Pocket-handkerchief."
"Yes, sir," said Winslow. "About what price"—
"Ugh!" said the old gentleman. "Poggit-handkerchief, quig!"
Winslow began to feel flustered. He produced two boxes.
"These, sir"—began Winslow.
"Sheed tin!" said the old gentleman, clutching the stiffness of the linen. "Wad to blow my nose—not haggit about."
"A cotton one, p'raps, sir?" said Winslow.
"How much?" said the old gentleman over the handkerchief.
"Sevenpence, sir. There's nothing more I can show you? No ties, braces—?"
"Damn!" said the old gentleman, fumbling in his ticket-pocket, and finally producing half a crown.
