"Number forty, white thread; but we're out of it."

"You stupid blockhead, we're not out of it! We're never out! If you'd use
yer eyes half as much as yer tongue ye'd be all right."

"But I can't find it. I've looked everywhere," and the clerk's eyes flashed
danger as he turned them upon his master.

"Well, look again. Don't stand thar starin' like an ijut!"

The young man did as he was commanded. He searched and rummaged, but all
in vain.

"Oh, come out of that, an' let me thar," and Farrington shoved his way
past the clerk, and fumbled excitedly in the box.

"Ah-yes-no-fifty-sixty-Well, I declare! Not thar! Confound it! Why didn't
ye tell me we were out before? Why did ye wait till the last spool was
gone afore sayin' a word about it?"

"I've only been here a week," replied the clerk, "and how could I know you
were out. No one has called for number forty thread since I've been here."

Farrington was beaten, and was forced to swallow his anger as best he
could. It was most aggravating to be thus humiliated in the presence of
this woman. He strode across the room, and stood with his back to the
stove, wondering how he could get even with his clerk. He would discharge
him. "No, that wouldn't do. It was hard to get a man to stay with him, and
this was a good worker. Anyway, he must be taught his place, and not
answer back. He would let him know that he owned the store.