"What other time?"

"To-morrow night?" suggested Mr. Worthington, striving to hide his
annoyance.

"B-busy to-morrow night," said Jethro.

"You know that what I have to talk to you about is of the utmost
importance," said Worthington. "Let us say Saturday night."

"B-busy Saturday night," said Jethro. "Meet you to-morrow."

"What time?"

"Noon," said Jethro, "noon."

"Where?" asked Mr. Worthington, dubiously.

"Band stand in Brampton Street," said Jethro, and the storekeeper was
fain to bend over his desk to conceal his laughter, busying himself with
his books. Mr. Worthington sat down with as much dignity as he could
muster on one of Jonah's old chairs, and Jonah Winch's clock ticked and
ticked, and Wetherell's pen scratched and scratched on his weekly letter
to Mr. Willard, although he knew that he was writing the sheerest
nonsense. As a matter of fact, he tore up the sheets the next morning
without reading them. Mr. Worthington unbuttoned his coat, fumbled in his
pocket, and pulled out two cigars, one of which he pushed toward Jethro,
who shook his head. Mr. Worthington lighted his cigar and cleared his
throat.