“Five cents a bag,” she said; “seven—eight—that makes quite a many bags—nine—ten—where will I put this?—eleven—twelve—here, little miss, tuck it in here,—thirteen—can you hold it up here?”
“We have enough, I think,” said Cricket, rather amazed at the quantity of peanuts you can get for seventy-five cents.
“That ain’t but thirteen, honey. Here, put this ’un under your arm. Got to go fur?”
“Not very. Well, Hilda, I never had all the peanuts I wanted at one time before, I do believe. I should think these would last a year. Oh, that one’s slipping off! Fix it, please. Thank you, ever so much.”
“Hollo, Madame Van Twister! Are you buying out the whole establishment?” said a familiar voice behind them, and turning they saw Donald.
“I guess she’s pretty glad to sell out,” said Cricket, seriously. “I know, for I kept a peanut-stand once in Marbury; the one I was telling you about, Hilda. It wasn’t much fun. It looks so, but it isn’t.”
“Buying her out from philanthropic motives?” queried Donald.
“No, we’ve been selling diamond rings,” said Cricket, carelessly, “and we had a lot of money, so we thought we’d buy peanuts. Want a bag, Don? we have plenty.”
“You’re a regular circus, you kid,” laughed Donald. “Where do you get your diamond rings?”
Cricket told him the whole story. Donald laughed till he had to hold on to the peanut-stand.