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Updated: June 3, 2025
"Well," he snapped, "what's up? Too late for business. I'm closin' up." The two quite disregarded him. Their eyes were wandering calmly about the place, and now they rested on the pride of McGuire's store. The figure of a man in evening clothes, complete from shoes to gloves and silk hat, stood beside a girl of wax loveliness.
She said to herself that "patience had ceased to be virtuous," and she lay awake half that night rehearsing a series of arguments and pleadings which she meant to present the next morning. She was the more incited to this owing to Mrs. McGuire's distracted reproaches the evening before. "Why, John has asked for him, actually ASKED for him," Mrs. McGuire had wept.
"'Pinky' McGuire's description fits you like flannel washed in hot suds. A detective saw you on the Rubberneck up at Central Park and 'phoned down to take you in. Do your explaining at the station-house."
McGuire had discharged some of his employés, reducing his force to its smallest possible limits, since he had fewer orders, and was trying in that way to avert the necessity of a cut in wages, and a strike or shut-down. McGuire's was essentially a union factory, as was Briggs's.
And there's dad." Keith's voice broke and stopped. Susan, watching his impassioned face, wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Then Keith began again. "Susan, do you know the one big thing that drives me up here every time, in spite of myself? It's the thought of dad. How do you suppose I feel to think of dad peddling peas and beans and potatoes down to McGuire's grocery store? dad!"
It is no wonder, surely, that very soon the town ceased to stare and gossip, or even to shake wise heads of prophecy. Nancy Holworthy's death was two months in the past when one day Keith came home from John McGuire's back porch in very evident excitement and agitation. "Why, Keith, what's the matter? What IS the matter?" demanded Susan concernedly. "Nothing.
A boy was bringing up an extra pony, bridled and saddled, to the gate. Raidler walked to McGuire's room and threw open the door. McGuire was lying on his cot, not yet dressed, smoking. "Get up," said the cattleman, and his voice was clear and brassy, like a bugle. "How's that?" asked McGuire, a little startled. "Get up and dress. I can stand a rattlesnake, but I hate a liar.
Added to all her other new problems of living was this one of dying. She made mistakes, of course, which the kindly nurses forgot to report basins left about, errors on her records. She rinsed her thermometer in hot water one night, and startled an interne by sending him word that Mary McGuire's temperature was a hundred and ten degrees.
She was very pale, but she was conscious of a curious steadiness of all her nerves. Abby leaned towards her, and spoke low in the roar of wheels. "I'll back you up, if I die for it," she said. But Sadie Peel, on the other side, spoke quite openly, with a laugh and shrug of her shoulders. "Land," she said, "father'll be with you. He's bound to strike. He struck when he was in McGuire's.
Time justified his faith, in a small way, and now McGuire's store was famed for leagues and leagues about, for he dared to take chances with all manner of novelties, and the curious, when their pocketbooks were full, went to McGuire's to find inspiration.
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