“But the market quotations say twenty-one cents,” murmured Mrs. Larry.
Jud’s good-humored face clouded. Here was an experience practically unheard of in the Dahlgren market, and plainly beyond his jurisdiction.
“I guess you’d better talk to the boss.”
Mr. Dahlgren stepped forward solicitously.
“Nothing wrong, I hope?”
Mrs. Larry felt her color rising. The few women in the market, like herself, were well-groomed, well-tailored. They turned and stared at her and Claire. Price-haggling in a shop of this class suddenly seemed cheap and common. And yet she was determined to put into practise the lessons in meat buying she had learned at the Monday morning meeting of the Housewives’ League.
“I don’t quite understand why this cut, the third and fourth ribs, is twenty-three cents a pound when the Housewives’ League price says twenty-one cents,” she explained, proffering Mr. Dahlgren the printed sheet.
The butcher’s shrewd experienced glance swept the line of quotations.
“Ah—hem—yes, I see. U’m—Quite so. Twenty-one cents to twenty-three. That’s right. Twenty-three cents—and that’s what we’re charging you.”
“But,” murmured Mrs. Larry, trying to look severe, “why do you charge me the top price instead of the bottom one? I am a regular customer. I pay my bill weekly, which is as good as cash, my husband says.” Being launched, she felt quite courageous. Surely this was the way Larry would talk to competing firms!