Conscientious
“Sarah,” said Moritz one morning to his wife, “Sarah, offer me one hundred and fifty marks for my hops!”
Sarah:—“Well, I offer you one hundred and fifty marks for your hops.”
Moritz then went to the hop market where a dealer offered him one hundred marks for his crop.
“What,” cries Moritz, indignantly, “one hundred marks! May the lightning strike me, if I haven’t already been offered to-day one hundred and fifty marks.”