Barclugh, noticing how good-naturedly everybody stopped Sven’s wheel-barrow, and how many patronized his fresh oysters, recognized in this guileless vender of shellfish a master-key to all the town’s frailties. Following up his observations, the next day when he met Sven on his morning rounds,—merrily pushing his wheel-barrow up Market Street, dressed in leather breeches, white cap and apron,—the fishmonger stopped and bowed low, half recognizing Barclugh’s desire to speak.
“How do you sell your wares, my good man?” spoke Barclugh.
“Sax pence ahl vat you eet, sahr,” was the prompt reply.
“All right, let us have some of the smallest, with no pepper-sauce, my man. I like them briny. Are these from the deep salt water?” continued Barclugh, thus to draw out Sven, who bustled around to please his new customer.
With a jerky motion he opened a choice bivalve and held it up for Barclugh to eat on the half-shell.
A roguish twinkle gleamed in his eye when his customer had taken the oyster with a smack of his lips. Sven held out the other half of the shell and with his oyster knife pointing to the fine purplish coloring of the inside, said:
“Das wass a he-oeystar, and ahl maan got some by me. Van maan eet plaanty he-oeystar and papper-saass he feel strang ahl daay. Das wass samting vat halps fadder and strangtans modder.”
The Swede could have gone on about his oysters at any length as long as his customer would eat, but getting enough “he-oysters,” Barclugh handed him a sixpence and at the same time slipping a crown piece into his hand, asked:
“Do you know General Arnold?”
“Yah,” replied Sven, who looked startled and astonished as he grasped the coin, and squared himself up to tell all that he knew.