“Ten dollars each.”
“Not this time. They’re prime, and they’re worth forty dollars apiece in Winnipeg.”
“This isn’t Winnipeg.”
“Give them back. They’re light to pack, and I guess I’ll take them to Winnipeg.”
But MacTavish was gloating over them. They were glossy black, remarkably well furred, the flesh side clean and white.
“They are pretty fair martens,” he said finally, as though weighing the matter. “I may do a little better; say fifteen dollars.”
“I’ll take them to Winnipeg.”
“You can’t get Winnipeg prices here.”
“No, but I don’t have to sell them here. I thought if you’d give me half what they’re worth I’d let you have them. You can keep them for twenty dollars each. Not a cent less.”
“Can’t do it, but I’ll say as a special favor to you eighteen dollars.”