He laughed, turned toward the back of the shop. As she reached the door he called from his desk at which he seemed about to seat himself, "I might squeeze you out ten dollars."
"The plumes on the hat will sell for thirty dollars," said Susan. "You know as well as I do that ostrich feathers have gone up."
The man slowly advanced. "I hate to see a customer go away unsatisfied," said he. "I'll give you twenty dollars."
"Not a cent less than twenty-five. At the next place I'll ask thirty—and get it."
"I never can stand out against a lady. Give me the stuff."
Susan put it on the counter again. Said she:
"I don't blame you for trying to do me. You're right to try to buy your way out of hell."
The pawnbroker reflected, could not understand this subtlety, went behind his counter. He produced a key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer underneath and took out a large tin box. With another key from another pocket he unlocked this, threw back the lid revealing a disorder of papers. From the depths he fished a paper bag. This contained a roll of bills. He gave Susan a twenty and a five, both covered with dirt so thickly that she could scarcely make out the denominations.
"You'll have to give me cleaner money than this," said she.
"You are a fine lady," grumbled he. But he found cleaner bills.