The Equations of Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

stuck a needle right in and did not know it.
    Mr. Dunkerley showed restraint owing to the fact that Eaton’s stocking counter did not seem the right place to demonstrate to a stranger the absurdity of the word “working man” as applied to people who did not work as hard as Mr. Dunkerley, and of denying the name “working man” to people like Mr. Dunkerley. In his club he would have expressed himself violently, so when he looked in a hostile way at Mort and grunted “Oh,” he was showing great self-restraint, and was not, as Mort thought at once, being snobbish and haughty.
    This “Oh” had a dampening effect on the little boy who was Mort. In fact the little boy disappeared as through a trap door, and a slightly truculent man took his place.
    Mr. H. Y. Dunkerley addressed himself to the nice girl at the counter.
    “Charge them,” he said, speaking clearly, “to Mr. Horace Dunkerley; I have a charge.”
    “Yes, Mr. Dunkerley,” said the nice girl, and charged the stockings, and wrapped them up.
    While she was doing this, Mort’s face took on a look of wonder. He scrutinized the well-dressed form and compact face of Mr. Dunkerley, and as he looked, he distinguished in the compact face of Mr. Dunkerley a small chubby and serious boy of about twelve years old.
    “Say,” said Mort, forgetting how rudely he had been treated, “did you ever live in Antigonish?”
    “
Certainly
I lived in Antigonish,” responded Mr. Dunkerley coldly.
    “Was it your father was a hand-logger and had a yoke of oxen just a piece out of Antigonish?”
    “Certainly he did,” answered Mr. Dunkerley, wishing to escape this questionnaire but unwilling to disclaim Antigonish and the yoke of oxen.
    “Well, whaddaya know!” exclaimed Mort with the happy air of discovery. “Well, whaddaya know! You’re not going to tell me you’re little Horse Dunkerley!”
    “Certainly I am Horace Dunkerley,” said Mr. H. Y. Dunkerley who seemed to have found a formula.
    “Well … Say … So you’re little Horse Dunkerley!” said Mort. He simply could not get over the fact that this successful business man was little Horse Dunkerley and that little Horse Dunkerley had grown into this successful business man.
    “And to think I licked the pants off of your big brother Alfy! I sure licked the tar out of Alfy! Where’s Alfy?”
    “In Yorkton, Saskatchewan,” said Mr. Dunkerley. He still looked coldly on Mort because he did not like him at all and not because he had licked the pants off of Alfy.
    This coldness became too much for Mort. It takes two to make harmony and Mr. Dunkerley was doing nothing about it. Mort felt outraged that little Horse Dunkerley to whom life had evidently been kind should act in this snobbish way to Mort just because Mort was a working man – and doggone it! employing
him
, Mort, to dig his old garden! Why he bet he never even went to the last war. Just stayed at home and made money.
    “Did you go to the war?” Mort asked with seeming irrelevance.
    “Certainly I did,” said Mr. Dunkerley, desiring to get away.
    “Captain, I suppose,” said Mort sarcastically.
    “Major,” snapped Mr. Dunkerley, and pushed past and on and out of the store.
    “Were you wanting some stockings?” asked the nice girl who had been listening with interest while pretending not to. She did not say “Do you want some stockings?” which was what she really meant, but used an oblique and genteel form of address in a past tense.
    “Were you wanting some stockings?” she asked again of Mort who seemed to be amazed about something.
    If he had answered her with scrupulous correctness he would have said “Yes, I was wanting some stockings but I don’t want any now. To hell with stockings. I don’t care if I never see another one.”
    But he just said “No” (Well, what did you come in here for then, thought the nice girl) in a furious tone of voice, and walked with his easy rolling gait out of the door, going in the other direction