did the two girls advancing towards the shop, who,
in place of being studiously well and handsomely dressed, were just a
little shabby, and careless how they looked in their last year's gray
velveteens, with hats to match, which Dora in her conscientious economy
had re-trimmed not very nicely.

Lag as the girls might, they could not delay their progress much longer,
and their bosoms were torn with conflicting emotions. What were they to
do? Leave the truant Tray to his fate? Boldly halt before the next shop
window, and trust to his seeing and joining them there? Still more
boldly, enter and request "the body of the culprit" to be delivered up
to his owner? Before they could come to a decision, Tom Robinson himself
appeared in the foreground. He was speaking, or rather listening to a
giant of a farmer in a light overcoat and streaming cravat, who, in
place of treating the master of "Robinson's" as "a whipper-snapper of a
counter-jumper," was behaving to him with the most unsophisticated
deference. Yet Tom's under size and pale complexion looked more
insignificant than ever beside the mighty thews and sinews and perennial
bloom of his customer. In spite of that, Tom Robinson was as undeniably
a gentleman in the surroundings, as Miss Franklin was a lady, and the
big honest farmer recognized and accepted the fact. While the pair stood
there, and the farmer made an elaborate explanation of the matter in
hand--broadcloth or blankets probably--to which Tom attended
courteously, as courteously as he would have heard the deliverances of
the member of the county or the bishop, Tray flashed out of the mellow
obscurity of the background and sniffed vigorously at the trowser ankles
of the master of "Robinson's."

"Hallo!" cried Tom, looking down at his feet.

"A bit fine terrier-dawg, Mister Robinson, sir," remarked the farmer;
"but I'm thinking he's strayed."

At the same instant both Tray and Tom caught sight of May's anxious face
peering in at the shop door. Tray rushed to his mistress with a
boisterously gracious greeting, which did not include the slightest
self-consciousness or sense of wrongdoing in its affability. Tom took a
couple of steps after him.

"I'm afraid, Miss May, you're spoiling that dog," he said, in friendly
remonstrance, before he observed who was with May, and stopped and bowed
with some constraint.

"Oh! Mr. Robinson," replied May, in her volubility effacing any shy
attempt at greeting on Dora's part,