With Mr. Croft, "Saint Peter's Understudy," it was more dangerous. You
had to beware of him. If you were a "looker," like Win, the best
thing that could happen to you was never to come within eyeshot of
Henry Croft. He lived in the suburbs, was married, and the
superintendent of a Sunday school. His name was on all the charity
lists. He was so tall and thin and sprawling that he looked like a
human hatrack, and his solemn circle of a face, surrounded with
yellowish whiskers, had a sunflower effect. He had written a book,
"Week-Day Sermons by a Layman"; nevertheless, he was a terror.
There were, according to Sadie, girls in the store who were of no more
use as saleswomen than baby alligators would have been, but they "gave
the glad eye" to Mr. Croft, and accepted his flowers and invitations
for moonlight motor rides. Nearly every one knew, but nobody told.
What use? Who was there to tell? Croft was "up at the top and then
some." Only Saint Peter himself stood above. And who would dare
complain to Saint Peter about his respectable right hand? Even if
there were any chance of getting near P.R., which there wasn't. He
came mostly at night, as if it were a disgrace to show himself in a
shop, even if it was his own.
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