“Well,” says Mr. Hamilton, “in that case I wouldn’t bother about it if I were you.”
“Oh,” says Skip, “I figgered if I could pick it up at a bargain—junk prices—I could git some profit out of it. Use it for special sales and sich in my store over to Wicksville.”
“You know pretty well what’s in the stock, don’t you?”
“Trust Jehoshaphat P. Skip for that. He hain’t buyin’ no pig in a bag. I hain’t been hangin’ around there three hours for nothin’.”
“Do you want to make me an offer? Is that why you are here?”
“I calc’late I wanted to talk price some. Hoffer’s got to sell. He ought to be willin’ to let it go cheap for ready cash.”
“He is willing to sell cheap. What’ll you offer?”
“Five hundred dollars,” says Skip, and clamped his thin lips together like he was afraid a breath would git out for nothing.
“Good afternoon,” says Mr. Hamilton, getting on to his feet. “I’m pretty busy. When you get ready to talk business, come around again.”
Skip looked sort of startled, but he didn’t get up. “I might raise that offer a mite,” says he.