"On a morning like this--"
Mr. Jollyman's eyes wandered to a gleam of sunny sky visible through
the shop window. The girl's glance passed quickly over his features,
and she was on the point of saying something; but discretion
interposed. Instead of the too personal remark, she repeated her
thanks, bent her head with perhaps a little more than the wonted
graciousness, and left the shop. The grocer stood looking toward the
doorway. His countenance had fallen. Something of bitterness showed
in the hardness of his lips.
CHAPTER 22
Just a year since the day when Allchin's band played at the first
floor windows above Jollyman's new grocery stores.
From the very beginning, business promised well. He and his
assistant had plenty of work; there was little time for meditation;
when not serving customers, he was busy with practical details of
grocerdom, often such as he had not foreseen, matters which called
for all his energy and ingenuity. A gratifying aspect of the life
was that, day by day, he handled his returns in solid cash.
Jollyman's gave no credit; all goods had to be paid for on purchase
or delivery; and to turn out the till when the shop had closed--to
make piles of silver and mountains of copper, with a few pieces of
gold beside them--put a cheering end to the day's labour.
Warburton found himself clinking handfuls of coin, pleased with the
sound. Only at the end of the first three months, the close of the
year, did he perceive that much less than he had hoped of the cash
taken could be reckoned as clear profit.
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