Even then Jethro spared him a look, but continued to study the contents of the case.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bass?  We have some really good things here.  For example, this Swiss watch, which I will sell you cheap, for one hundred and fifty dollars.”

“One hundred and fifty dollars—­er—­one hundred and fifty?”

Wetherell nodded.  Still the countryman did not look up.

“F-folks told me to be careful,” he repeated without a smile.  He was looking at the lockets, and finally pointed a large finger at one of them—­the most expensive, by the way.  “W-what d’ye get for that?” he asked.

“Twenty dollars,” the clerk promptly replied.  Thirty was nearer the price, but what did it matter.

“H-how much for that?” he said, pointing to another.  The clerk told him.  He inquired about them all, deliberately repeating the sums, considering with so well-feigned an air of a purchaser that Mr. Wetherell began to take a real joy in the situation.  For trade was slack in August, and diversion scarce.  Finally he commanded that the case be put on the top of the counter, and Wetherell humored him.  Whereupon he picked up the locket he had first chosen.  It looked very delicate in his huge, rough hand, and Wetherell was surprised that the eyes of Mr. Bass had been caught by the most expensive, for it was far from being the showiest.

“T-twenty dollars?” he asked.

“We may as well call it that,” laughed Wetherell.

“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.”