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But he was a boy, a boy of eleven years, a quiet, gentle, gravely thoughtful boy, and he had been taught how to respect his elders. So he just stood there looking with his tar-black eyes. Old Man Crocker, pursing at the mouth a little, without meeting Grover’s gaze, took the stamps up in his thin, parched fingers and, turning, rocked away with them down to the till.

He took the twos and folded them and laid them in one rounded scallop, then took the ones and folded them and put them in the one next to it. Then he closed the till and started to rock off, down toward the other end. Grover, his face now quiet and grave, kept looking at him, but Mr. Crocker did not look at Grover. Instead he began to take some stamped cardboard shapes and fold them into boxes.

In a moment Grover said, “Mr. Crocker, will you give me the three ones, please?”

Mr. Crocker did not answer. He kept folding boxes, and he compressed his thin lips quickly as he did so. But Mrs. Crocker, back turned to her spouse, also folding boxes with her birdlike hands, muttered tartly: “Hm. I’d give him nothing!”

Mr. Crocker looked up, looked at Grover, said, “What are you waiting for?”

“Will you give me the three ones, please?” Grover said.

“I’ll give you nothing,” Mr. Crocker said.

He left his work and came rocking forward along the counter.”Now you get out of here! Don’t you come in here with any more of those stamps,” said Mr. Crocker.

“I should like to know where he gets them—that’s what I should like to know,” said Mrs. Crocker.

She did not look up as she said these words. She inclined her head a little to the side, in Mr. Crocker’s direction, and continued to fold the boxes with her bony fingers.

“You get out of here!” said Mr. Crocker.”And don’t you come back here with any stamps. . . . Where did you get those stamps?” he said.

“That’s just what I’ve been thinking,” Mrs. Crocker said.”I’ve been thinking all along.”

“You’ve been coming in here for the last two weeks with those stamps,” said Mr. Crocker. “I don’t like the look of it. Where did you get those stamps?” he said.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” said Mrs. Crocker, for a second time.

Grover had got white underneath his olive skin. His eyes had lost their luster. They looked like dull, stunned balls of tar.”From Mr. Reed,” he said.”I got the stamps from Mr. Reed.” Then he burst out desperately: “Mr. Crocker—Mr. Reed will tell you how I got the stamps. I did some work for Mr. Reed, he gave me those stamps two weeks ago.”

“Mr. Reed,” said Mrs. Crocker acidly. She did not turn her head.”I call it mighty funny.”

“Mr. Crocker,” Grover said, “if you’ll just let me have three ones—”

“You get out of here!” cried Mr. Crocker, and he began rocking forward toward Grover.”Now don’t you come in here again, boy! There’s something funny about this whole business! I don’t like the look of it,” said Mr. Crocker.”If you can’t pay as other people do, then I don’t want your trade.”

“Mr. Crocker,” Grover said again, and underneath the olive skin his face was gray, “if you’ll just let me have those three—”

“You get out of here!” Mr. Crocker cried, rocking down toward the counter’s end. “If you don’t get out, boy—”

“I’d call a policeman, that’s what I’d do,” Mrs. Crocker said.

Mr. Crocker rocked around the lower end of the counter. He came rocking up to Grover.”You get out,” he said.

He took the boy and pushed him with his bony little hands, and Grover was sick and gray down to the hollow pit of his stomach.

“You’ve got to give me those three ones,” he said.

“You get out of here!” shrilled Mr. Crocker. He seized the screen door, pulled it open, and pushed Grover out.”Don’t you come back in here,” he said, pausing for a moment, and working thinly at the lips. He turned and rocked back in the shop again. The screen door slammed behind him. Grover stood there on the pavement. And light came and went and came again into the Square.