“Not a penny over two dollars,” the liveryman said.
“All right, I’ll take two dollars,” said Almanzo, quickly.
The liveryman looked at Father, and then he pushed back his hat and asked Almanzo why he priced the hay at two dollars and a quarter in the first place.
“Are you taking it at two dollars?” Almanzo asked. The liveryman said he was. “Well,” Almanzo said, “I asked two and a quarter because if I’d asked two, you wouldn’t have paid but one seventy-five.”
The liveryman laughed, and said to Father, “That’s a smart boy of yours.”
“Time will show,” Father said. “Many a good beginning makes a bad ending. It remains to be seen how he turns out in the long run.”
Father did not take the money for the hay; he let Almanzo take it and count it to make sure it was sixty dollars.
Then they went to Mr. Case’s store. This store was always crowded, but Father always did his trading there, because Mr. Case sold his goods cheaper than other merchants. Mr. Case said, “I’d rather have a nimble sixpence than a slow shilling.”
Almanzo stood in the crowd with Father, waiting while Mr. Case served first-comers. Mr. Case was polite and friendly to everybody alike; he had to be, because they were all customers. Father was polite to everybody, too, but he was not as friendly to some as he was to others.
After a while Father gave Almanzo the pocketbook and told him to look for Mr. Thompson. Father must stay in the store to wait his turn; he could not lose time if they were to get home by chore-time.
No other boys were on the street; they were all in school. Almanzo liked to be walking down the street, carrying all that money, and he thought how glad Mr. Thompson would be to see it again. He looked in the stores, and the barber shop, and the bank. Then he saw Mr. Thompson’s team standing on a side street, in front of Mr. Paddock’s wagon-shop. He opened the door of the long, low building, and went in.
Mr. Paddock and Mr. Thompson were standing by the round-bellied stove, looking at a piece of hickory and talking about it. Almanzo waited, because he could not interrupt them.
It was warm in the building, and there was a good smell of shavings and leather and paint. Beyond the stove two workmen were making a wagon, and another was painting thin red lines on the red spokes of a new buggy. The buggy glistened proudly in black paint. Long curls of shavings lay in heaps, and the whole place was as pleasant as a barn on a rainy day. The workmen whistled while they measured and marked and sawed and planed the clean-smelling wood.
Mr. Thompson was arguing about the price of a new wagon. Almanzo decided that Mr. Paddock did not like Mr. Thompson, but he was trying to sell the wagon. He figured
the cost with his big carpenter’s pencil, and soothingly tried to persuade Mr. Thompson.
“You see, I can’t cut the price any further and pay my men,” he said. “I’m doing the best I can for you. I guarantee we’ll make a wagon to please you, or you don’t have to take it.”
“Well, maybe I’ll come back to you, if I can’t do better elsewhere,” Mr. Thompson said, suspiciously.
“Glad to serve you any time,” said Mr. Paddock. Then he saw Almanzo, and asked him how the pig was getting along. Almanzo liked big, jolly Mr. Paddock; he always asked about Lucy.
“She’ll weigh around a hundred and fifty now,” Almanzo told him, then he turned to Mr. Thompson and asked, “Did you lose a pocketbook?”
Mr. Thompson jumped. He clapped a hand to his pocket, and fairly shouted.
“Yes, I have! Fifteen hundred dollars in it, too. What about it? What do you know about it?”
“Is this it?” Almanzo asked.
“Yes, yes, yes, that’s it!” Mr. Thompson said, snatching the pocketbook. He opened it and hurriedly counted the money. He counted all the bills over twice, and he looked exactly like a man skinning a flea for its hide and tallow.
Then he breathed a long sigh of relief, and said, “Well, this durn boy didn’t steal any of it.” Almanzo’s face was hot as fire. He wanted to hit Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson thrust his skinny hand into his pants pocket and hunted around. He took out something.
“Here,” he said, putting it into Almanzo’s hand. It was a nickel.
Almanzo was so angry he couldn’t see. He hated Mr. Thompson; he wanted to hurt him. Mr. Thompson called him a durn boy, and as good as called him a thief. Almanzo didn’t want his old nickel. Suddenly he thought what to say. “Here,” he said, handing the nickel back. “Keep your nickel. I can’t change it.”
Mr. Thompson’s tight, mean face turned red. One of the workmen laughed a short, jeering laugh. But Mr. Paddock stepped up to Mr. Thompson, angry.
“Don’t you call this boy a thief, Thompson!” he said. “And he’s not a beggar, either! That’s how you treat him, is it? When he brings you back your fifteen hundred dollars! Gall him a thief and hand him a nickel, will you?”
Mr. Thompson stepped back, but Mr. Paddock stepped right after him. Mr. Paddock shook his fist under Mr. Thompson’s nose.