“I meant—” Penrod began, but paused, something daunted, while an unnamed fear brought greater mildness into his voice, as he continued, “I meant—I—How much IS that big horn?”
“How much?” the earl repeated.
“I mean,” said Penrod, “how much is it worth?”
“I don't know,” the earl returned. “Its price is eighty-five dollars.”
“Eighty-fi—” Penrod began mechanically, but was forced to pause and swallow a little air that obstructed his throat, as the difference between eighty-five and two became more and more startling. He had entered the store, rich; in the last ten seconds he had become poverty-stricken. Eighty-five dollars was the same as eighty-five millions.
“Shall I put it aside for you,” asked the salesman-earl, “while you look around the other stores to see if there's anything you like better?”
“I guess—I guess not,” said Penrod, whose face had grown red. He swallowed again, scraped the floor with the side of his right shoe, scratched the back of his neck, and then, trying to make his manner casual and easy, “Well I can't stand around here all day,” he said. “I got to be gettin' on up the street.”
“Business, I suppose?”
Penrod, turning to the door, suspected jocularity, but he found himself without recourse; he was nonplussed.
“Sure you won't let me have that horn tied up in nice wrapping-paper in case you decide to take it?”