The “sir” was flattering, if it was sincere. He glanced at her. The expression of the mouth was as grave as ever, but he was still uncertain about those eyes. However, he was disposed to give her the benefit of the doubt, so, stepping to the side door of the office--that leading to the yards--he opened it and shouted: “Price! . . . Hey, Price!” There was no answer, although he could hear Issachar's voice and another above the rattle of lath bundles. “Price!” he shouted, again. “Pri-i-ce!” The rattling ceased. Then, in the middle distance, above a pile of “two by fours,” appeared Issachar's head, the features agitated and the forehead bedewed with the moisture of honest toil. “Huh?” yelled Issy. “What's the matter? Be you hollerin' to me?” “Yes. There's some one here wants to see you.” “Hey?” “I say there's some one here who wants to see you.” “What for?” “I don't know.” “Well, find out, can't ye? I'm busy.” Was that a laugh which Albert heard behind him? He turned around, but the young lady's face wore the same grave, even demure, expression. “What do you want to see him for?” he asked. “I wanted to buy something.” “She wants to buy something,” repeated Albert, shouting. “Hey?” “She wants to--BUY--something.” It was humiliating to have to scream in this way. “Buy? Buy what?” “What do you want to buy?” “A hook, that's all. A hook for our kitchen door. Would you mind asking him to hurry? I haven't much time.” “She wants a hook.” “Eh? We don't keep books. What kind of a book?” “Not book--HOOK. H-O-O-K! Oh, great Scott! Hook! HOOK! Hook for a door! And she wants you to hurry.” “Eh? Well, I can't hurry now for nobody. I got to load these laths and that's all there is to it. Can't you wait on him?” Evidently the customer's sex had not yet been made clear to the Price understanding. “You can get a hook for him, can't ye? You know where they be, I showed ye. Ain't forgot so soon, 'tain't likely.” The head disappeared behind the “two by fours.” Its face was red, but no redder than Mr. Speranza's at that moment. “Fool rube!” he snorted, disgustedly. “Excuse me, but you've dropped your cigarette,” observed the young lady. Albert savagely slammed down the window and turned away. The dropped cigarette stump lay where it had fallen, smudging and smelling. His caller looked at it and then at him. “I'd pick it up, if I were you,” she said. “Cap'n Snow HATES cigarettes.” Albert, his dignity and indignation forgotten, returned her look with one of anxiety. “Does he, honest?” he asked. “Yes. He hates them worse than anything.” The cigarette stump was hastily picked up by its owner. “Where'll I put it?” he asked, hurriedly. “Why don't you--Oh, don't put it in your pocket! It will set you on fire. Put it in the stove, quick.” Into the stove it went, all but its fragrance, which lingered. “Do you think you COULD find me that hook?” asked the girl. “I'll try. _I_ don't know anything about the confounded things.”