Albert made no reply. Between embarrassment and sorrow he was incapable of speech. Issachar, however, was not in that condition; at all times when awake, and sometimes when asleep, Mr. Price could, and usually did, speak. “Which one is it this time, Al?” demanded Issy. “Eh? Crimus, see him get red! Haw, haw! Labe,” to Mr. Keeler, who came into the office from the inner room, “which girl do you cal'late Al here is wavin' by-bye to this mornin'? Who's goin' away on the cars this mornin', Labe?” Laban, his hands full of the morning mail, absently replied that he didn't know. “Yes, you do, too,” persisted Issy. “You ain't listenin', that's all. Who's leavin' town on the train just now?” “Eh? Oh, I don't know. The Small folks are goin' to Boston, I believe. And George Bartlett's goin' to Ostable on court business, he told me. Oh, yes, I believe Cap'n Lote said that Fosdick woman and her daughter were goin' back to New York. Back to New York--yes--yes--yes.” Mr. Price crowed triumphantly. “Ah, ha!” he crowed. “Ah, ha! That's the answer. That's the one he's shakin' day-days to, that Fosdick girl. I've seen you 'round with her at the post office and the ice cream s'loon. I'm onto you, Al. Haw, haw! What's her name? Adeline? Dandelion? Madeline?--that's it! Say, how do you think Helen Kendall's goin' to like your throwin' kisses to the Madeline one, eh?” The assistant bookkeeper was still silent. The crimson, however, was leaving his face and the said face was paling rapidly. This was an ominous sign had Mr. Price but known it. He did not know it and cackled merrily on, “Guess I'll have to tell Helen when she comes back home,” he announced. “Cal'late I'll put a flea in her ear. 'Helen,' I'll say, 'don't feel too bad now, don't cry and get your handkerchief all soakin', or nothin' like that. I just feel it's my duty to tell ye that your little Albert is sparkin' up to somebody else. He's waitin' on a party by the name of Padeline--no, Madeline--Woodtick--no, Fosdick--and . . .' Here! let go of me! What are you doin'?” That last question was in the nature of a gurgle. Albert, his face now very white indeed, had strode across the office, seized the speaker by the front of his flannel shirt and backed him against the wall. “Stop,” commanded Albert, between his teeth. “That's enough of that. Don't you say any more!” “Eh? Ugh! Ur-gg! Leggo of my shirt.” Albert let go, but he did not step back. He remained where he was, exactly in front of Mr. Price. “Don't you say any more about--about what you were saying,” he repeated. “Eh? Not say any more? Why not? Who's goin' to stop me, I'd like to know?” “I am.” “I want to know! What'll you do?” “I don't know. If you weren't so old, I would--but I'll stop you, anyhow.” Albert felt a hand on his arm and heard Mr. Keeler's voice at his ear. “Careful, Al, careful,” it said. “Don't hit him.”