“Calculatin’ to invest in dry-goods?” he said, addressing the stranger.
“Why, I’d like to buy a small bill of goods,” said the man, with a slow, hesitating accent.
“Hitch hosses, then, and come along here. I’m the man you want. What’ll you have to-day? Silks, shawls, dress goods? Got some fine new styles aboard. See here, this is jist the article you want, to a thread.”
In a trice, Will had partly unrolled a rich fabric of the most delicate shades of color.
“Shall I lay you out a piece of this? It’s dog cheap. Just look at that stuff! Did you ever see anything as handsome? You can feel it, too, if your fingers are clean. Every spot on that would be a dollar out of pocket. How many pieces did you say?”
“No, no,” said the customer, with difficulty restraining Will’s flow of words. “Silks don’t sell down our way. I’d like to look at the calicoes.”
“The what?” said Will, starting back in open-mouthed astonishment.
“The calicoes,” said the man, hesitating, as if he feared he had made a serious blunder.
“Look ye here,” said Will, touching his arm in a patronizing manner. “What part of Uncle Sam’s farm might you be from?”
“I’m from Woodenville, down in Bucks county,” said the customer, drawing back in a timid manner.