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.

“William,” said Mr. Judson, in a dangerously quiet voice, “perhaps you can explain this extraordinary state of affairs.”

“I can, sir,” William cried.  “This gentleman” (the word stuck in his throat), “this gentleman came in here to examine lockets which I had no reason to believe he would buy.  I admit my fault, sir.  He asked the price of the most expensive, and I told him twenty dollars, merely for a jest, sir.”  William hesitated.

“Well?” said Mr. Judson.

“After pricing every locket in the case, he seized the first one, handed me twenty dollars, and now refuses to give it up, although he knows the price is twenty-seven.”

“Then?”

“Then I locked the door, sir.  He sat down there, and hasn’t moved since.”

Mr. Judson looked again at Mr. Bass; this time with unmistakable interest.  The other customer began to laugh, and the crowd was pressing in, and Mr. Judson turned and shut the door in their faces.  All this time Mr. Bass had not moved, not so much as to lift his head or shift one of his great cowhide boots.

“Well, sir,” demanded Mr. Judson, “what have you to say?”

“N-nothin’.  G-guess I’ll keep the locket.  I’ve, paid for it—­I’ve paid for it.”

“And you are aware, my friend,” said Mr. Judson, “that my clerk has given you the wrong price?”

“Guess that’s his lookout.”  He still sat there, doggedly unconcerned.

A bull would have seemed more at home in a china shop than Jethro Bass in a jewellery store.  But Mr. Judson himself was a man out of the ordinary, and instead of getting angry he began to be more interested.