There was an uneasy shuffling of boots. One of the boys from The
Beaches giggled. Cap'n Abe--and the fishfly--boomed on together, the
storekeeper evidently visualizing the scene he narrated and not the
half-lighted and goods-crowded shop. At its best it was never well
illumined. Had the window panes been washed there was little chance of
the sunshine penetrating far save by the wide open door. On either hand
as one entered were the rows of hanging oilskins, storm boots,
miscellaneous clothing and ship chandlery that made up only a part of
Cap'n Abe's stock.
There were blue flannel shirts dangling on wooden hangers to show all
their breadth of shoulder and the array of smoked-pearl buttons. Brown
and blue dungaree overalls were likewise displayed--grimly, like men
hanging in chains. At the end of one row of these quite ordinary
habiliments was one dress shirt with pleated bosom and cuffs as stiff as
a board. Lawford Tapp sometimes speculated on that shirt--how it chanced
to be in Cap'n Abe's stock and why it had hung there until the flies had
taken title to it!
Centrally located was the stove, its four heavily rusted legs set in a
shallow box which was sometimes filled with fresh sawdust.
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