“What cut is that?” Mrs. Larry asked, with a fine assumption of firmness and indicating the rolled roast, which Jud had tossed into the basket, as if the sale were made.
“That?” echoed the wondering cutter. “That’s a Delmonico roast—fancy.”
“Haven’t you—haven’t you a third or fourth rib roast, something cheaper than this?”
“Well, of course, I can give you any cut you want,” said the amazed attendant, accustomed to filling unqualified telephone orders. “But I’d advise you to take this—no waste.”
Mrs. Larry looked up from her quotations.
“The second cut is only twenty-one cents a pound, to-day. I’ll take that.”
“Certainly,” acquiesced Jud; “but you won’t find much saving in that piece, what with bones and tailings.” He had flung another roast, unrolled, on the scales. “Seven pounds—one dollar and sixty cents. Mebbe you’d rather have three ribs than two?”
Again Claire’s pencil moved to the rhythm of figures.
“If it’s twenty-one cents a pound, it ought to be only one dollar and forty-seven cents.”
“This cut is twenty-three cents a pound.”