“It’s not too good for Cynthy,” he said.

“Nothing’s too good for Cynthy,” answered Mr. Wetherell, mockingly, little knowing how he might come to mean it.

Jethro Bass paid no attention to this speech.  Pulling a great cowhide wallet from his pocket, still holding the locket in his hand, to the amazement of the clerk he counted out twenty dollars and laid them down.

“G-guess I’ll take that one, g-guess I’ll take that one,” he said.

Then he looked at Mr. Wetherell for the first time.

“Hold!” cried the clerk, more alarmed than he cared to show, “that’s not the price.  Did you think I could sell it for that price?”

“W-wahn’t that the price you fixed?”

“You simpleton!” retorted Wetherell, with a conviction now that he was calling him the wrong name.  “Give me back the locket, and you shall have your money, again.”

“W-wahn’t that the price you fixed?”

“Yes, but—­”

“G-guess I’ll keep the locket—­g-guess I’ll keep the locket.”

Wetherell looked at him aghast, and there was no doubt about his determination.  With a sinking heart the clerk realized that he should have to make good to Mr. Judson the seven odd dollars of difference, and then he lost his head.  Slipping round the counter to the door of the shop, he turned the key, thrust it in his pocket, and faced Mr. Bass again—­from behind the counter.

“You don’t leave this shop,” cried the clerk, “until you give me back that locket.”

Jethro Bass turned.  A bench ran along the farther wall, and there he planted himself without a word, while the clerk stared at him,—­with what feelings of uneasiness I shall not attempt to describe,—­for the customer was plainly determined to wait until hunger should drive one of them forth.  The minutes passed, and Wetherell began to hate him.  Then some one tried the door, peered in through the glass, perceived Jethro, shook the knob, knocked violently, all to no purpose.  Jethro seemed lost in a reverie.

“This has gone far enough,” said the clerk, trying to keep his voice from shaking “it is beyond a joke.  Give me back the locket.”  And he tendered Jethro the money again.

“W-wahn’t that the price you fixed?” asked Jethro, innocently.

Wetherell choked.  The man outside shook the door again, and people on the sidewalk stopped, and presently against the window panes a sea of curious faces gazed in upon them.  Mr. Bass’s thoughts apparently were fixed on Eternity—­he looked neither at the people nor at Wetherell.  And then, the crowd parting as for one in authority, as in a bad dream the clerk saw his employer, Mr. Judson, courteously pushing away the customer at the door who would not be denied.  Another moment, and Mr. Judson had gained admittance with his private key, and stood on the threshold staring at clerk and customer.  Jethro gave no sign that the situation had changed.