The flame nipped Johnson's thumb; he dropped the match on the tiled floor and stepped upon it.

The clerk hesitated and then rose.
"He loves me--he loves me not!" murmured Mr.Johnson sadly, plucking the petals from an imaginary daisy.
The clerk sauntered to the teller's wicket and frowned upon his customer from under eyebrows arched and supercilious; he preserved a haughty silence.

Before this official disapproval Peter's eyes wavered and fell, abashed.
"I'll--I'll stick my face through there if you'd like to step on it!" he faltered.
The official eyebrows grew arrogant.
"You are wasting my time.

Have you any business here ?" "Ya-as.

Be you the cashier ?" "His assistant." "I'd like to borrow some money," said Pete timidly.