"I told you you mustn't get him started," went on Miss Keith, gushingly.

"He'll talk forever if he has a chance. But you would do it. Asking him if he kept pomegranates and bread-fruit! The idea! I'm sure he doesn't know what a pomegranate is. You were SO solemn and he was SO ridiculous!

I thought I should DIE. You really are the drollest person, Crawford Smith! I don't know what I shall do with you."

It was evident that her opinion of young Smith was not different from that of other young ladies of her age. Also that Crawford himself was not entirely unconscious of that opinion. At eighteen, to be set upon a pedestal and worshiped, to have one's feeblest joke hailed as a masterpiece of wit, is dangerous for the idol; the effort of sustaining the elevated position entails the risk of a fall. Crawford was but eighteen and a good fellow, but he had been worshiped a good deal. He was quite as sensible as other young chaps of his age, which statement means exactly that and no more.

"Well," he said, with a complacent grin, "we learned how to p.r.o.nounce 'pomegranate' at any rate. You begin with a pup-pup-pup, as if you were calling a dog, and you finish with a grunt like a pig. I wish I had asked him for a persimmon; then he'd have made a noise like a cat."

Miss Keith, when she recovered from her spasm of merriment, declared her companion "perfectly killing."

"But we must hurry," she said. "We really must Crawford, you buy the things. I should think of that fruit man and laugh all the time, I know I should."

She remained by the door and the young gentleman strolled to the counter. He cast an amused glance about the store; its display of stock was, thanks to Mary-'Gusta's recent efforts at tidiness, not quite the conglomerate ma.s.s it had been when the partners were solely responsible, but the variety was still strikingly obvious.

"Humph!" observed Crawford; "I've forgotten what we came to buy, but I'm sure it is here, whatever it is. Some emporium, this! Introduce me to the proprietor, will you, Edna?"

Edna giggled.

"She isn't the proprietor," she said. "She is just the clerk, that's all. Her name is--I've forgotten your name, dear. What is it?"

"Mary Lathrop," replied Mary-'Gusta, shortly. She objected to being addressed as "dear" and she strongly objected to the patronizing tone in which it was uttered. Edna Keith was older than she, but not old enough to patronize.

"Oh, yes, so it is," said the young lady. "But that isn't what everyone calls you. They call you something else--something funny--Oh, I know!

Mary-'Gusta, that's it. I knew it was funny. Mary-'Gusta, this is Mr.

Smith. He wants to buy some things. And he's in a GREAT hurry."

"Charmed, Mary-'Gusta," said Mr. Smith. Mary-'Gusta did not appear charmed. She asked him what he wanted.

"Search ME," said the young gentleman, cheerfully. "There was a list, wasn't there, Edna? You have it, I think."

Edna produced the list, scrawled in pencil on the back of an envelope.

Crawford looked it over.

"Sam's writing isn't exactly print," he observed, "but I can guess at it. Let's see--a pound of b.u.t.ter. Where's the b.u.t.ter department of this Bon Marche, Edna?"

Edna, after another convulsion, declared she didn't know.

"No doubt Miss--er--Mary Jane knows," went on her companion. "Why, yes, of course she does. Right there, behind the oilskin jacket. Remove jacket, open door--behold, the icebox and the b.u.t.ter. Neat, compact, and convenient. One pound only, Elizabeth Eliza. Thank you."

"Her name isn't Elizabeth Eliza," giggled Miss Keith. "Isn't he awful, Mary-'Gusta! You mustn't mind him."

"I don't," said Mary-'Gusta, promptly. "What else do you want?"

Crawford consulted the list. "The next item," he said, "appears to be a--er--certain kind of ham. I blush to mention it, but I must. It is deviled ham. Have you that kind of ham, Mary-'Gusta?"

Mary-'Gusta took the can of deviled ham from the shelf. Crawford shook his head.

"To think that one so young should be so familiar with ham of that kind!" he said. "She didn't speak its name, though. Suppose I had asked you what kind of ham you had, Miss--er--'Gusta how would you have got around it?"

Mary-'Gusta did not answer. She was very angry, but she was determined that her tormentor should not know it.

"A young lady of few words," commented Mr. Smith. "Next item appears to be six boxes of marshmallows. Where is the marshmallow department, Mary Jane?"

Mary-'Gusta hesitated. The tin boxes of marshmallows were on the shelf behind the counter under the candy case. But there was a fresh a.s.sortment in an unopened packing box in the back room, a box which had just come from the wholesale confectioner's in Boston. Her Uncle Zoeth had expressed a fear that those beneath the counter were rather stale.

Miss Keith fidgeted. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "This is SO slow. I know Sam and the rest won't wait for us at the clam-man's much longer."

Her companion whistled. "Is the word 'hurry' in the South Harniss dictionary, Edna?" he inquired. "How about it, Mary Jane?"

Mary-'Gusta was determined not to hurry. This superior young man wished her to do so and that was reason sufficient for delay.

Young Smith sighed resignedly. "Edna," he said, "suppose we sit down.

The word is NOT in the dictionary."

There was but one chair, except those behind the counters, in the store.

Miss Keith took that with an exclamation of impatience. Crawford Smith, whistling a mournful dirge, sauntered to the end of the counter and sat down upon a nail keg.

Mary-'Gusta also uttered an exclamation. It is well to look before one leaps, also, occasionally, before one sits. That keg had, spread across its top, a sheet of the fresh and very sticky fly paper. Before she could have protested, even if she had wished to do so, the young gentleman's spotless white flannels and the fly paper came in contact, close and clinging contact.

Mary-'Gusta put a hand to her mouth. Crawford looked at her, caught the direction of her look, and looked in that direction himself. His whistle stopped in the middle of a note and his face immediately became a match for his socks and tie, a beautiful rich crimson, the chosen color of his University.

Miss Keith, from her seat by the door, could not see beyond the end of the counter. Consequently she was unaware of the mishap to the white flannels. But Mary-'Gusta saw and knew; also she could see that Mr.

Smith knew.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Edna, impatiently. "We are dreadfully late now.

We'll never get there on time. Sam won't wait for us; I know he won't.

Where are those marshmallows? Can't you please hurry, Mary-'Gusta?"

Mary-'Gusta's eyes were sparkling. Her manner was provokingly deliberate. She took a box of marshmallows from beneath the counter.

"There are some here," she said, "but I'm afraid they aren't very fresh.

The fresh ones, those that have just come, are in a box in the back room. That box hasn't been opened yet. If you can wait I'll open it for you."

Young Smith said nothing. Miss Keith, however, spoke her mind.

"Of course we can't wait," she declared. "I'm sure these will do. They will do, won't they, Crawford?"

And still Crawford remained silent. Mary-'Gusta, who was enjoying this portion of the interview as much as she had disliked its beginning, offered a suggestion.

"If you will just come here and look at these," she said, with mischievous gravity, addressing the young gentleman on the nail keg, "perhaps you can tell whether they're fresh enough."

The young gentleman did not rise. His face retained its brilliant color and his lips moved, but his answer was not audible. At his age the dread of appearing ridiculous, especially in the presence of a youthful and charming female, is above all others hateful. And Edna Keith was not the only girl in the picnic party; there were others. She would be certain to tell them. Crawford Smith foresaw a horrible day, a day of disgrace and humiliation, one in which he was destined to furnish amus.e.m.e.nt without sharing the fun. And Sam Keith, who had remarked upon the splendor of his friend's attire, would gloat--not only here in South Harniss, but elsewhere--in Cambridge, for instance. An older man would have risen, laughed whether he felt like laughing or not--and have expressed his opinion of fly paper. Crawford was not yet a man; he was in the transition stage, a boy fondly hoping that other people might think him a man. So he sat still until it was too late to rise, and then wished he had risen in the first place.

"My goodness!" exclaimed the fidgety Miss Keith, "why don't you look at them, Crawford? What are you waiting for?"

Mary-'Gusta, the box of marshmallows in her hand, regarded the boy on the nail keg. His eyes met hers and in them was a look of such utter misery that the girl relented. Her feeling of satisfied resentment changed to one almost of pity. She had been made to feel ridiculous herself at various times in her short life and she remembered the sensation. Mary-'Gusta, as has been mentioned before in this history, was old for her years.

She considered a moment. Then she thrust the box beneath the counter.

"I guess I'd better not sell you those, anyway," she said with decision.