"Poorly, dreadful poorly, yet," was the reply. "Cold weather, you see, sort o' sets the old lady back."
"I suppose so," responded our friend; and here, think's we, if there is anything important or business like on the man's mind, he must be near to its focus. But he started again—
"Ain't goin' to Californy, then, are you?" says Mr. Smallpotatoes.
"Guess not," said our friend. "You talked of going, I believe?"
"Well, ye-e-e-s, I did think of it," said the rural gent; "I did think of it last fall, but I kind o' gin it up."
Here another hiatus occurred; the rural gent walked around, viewed the goods and chattels for some minutes; then says he—
"Guess I'll be movin'," and of course that called forth from our friend the venerated expression—
"What's your hurry?"
"Well, nothing 'special. Plaguy cold winter we've got!"
"That's a fact," answered the storekeeper. "How's sleighing out your way—good?"