Page:Arthur Stringer-The Loom of Destiny.djvu/70

The Loom of Destiny pot?" The voice was tremulous with tearful entreaty.

"Because you can't, that's why, Tommie Doyle!" shrilly, sternly, called back his mother from the shop.

"But I ain't had a taste of taffy since we've come in this new shop!" wailed back the boy.

"And you ain't likely to get none, neither!" said his mother impassively, as she put the two pennies in an empty cigar-box placed on the shelf for that purpose.

The two visitors looked at each other with significant glances. The revelation had come! Tommie Doyle was a sham and an impostor. Conversation lozenges were forgotten, and the little bell over the shop door had not ceased ringing before the news was spreading like wildfire down the Street.

When Tommie Doyle stepped out of the shop that afternoon, smacking his lips and rubbing his stomach, a jeer of laughter sounded through the crowded street.

"Ma, why can't I scrape out the big pot?" mimicked Maggie Reilly with 58