"You did, no doubt, or else he wouldn't've been drunk last night," she replied.
"I never ask any questions where the things I buy come from—I give all anything is worth; no more, no less, and never ask where the money goes when it leaves my hands—I expect to sell them for a profit, or else what am I in business for?" thus screeched the junkman.
"Oh, Mr. Dieman!" wailed the poor creature. "I have nothing left to cook with or eat on. He's taken the last dish in the house. My children have been eating off the bare boards—and eating their vituals raw."
"That's not my outlook, Mrs. Barton," retorted Peter, rubbing his hands now more vigorously than ever, as if he had a fresh chill, or had just come in out of a cold blast of weather.
"I thought you might return them to me," said Mrs. Barton, appealingly.
"Thought nothing," he answered, with a croak. "Give me my price and you can take them."
"I have only fifty cents," said the forlorn woman, "and I need that to buy something to eat."
"I have nothing to give you, Mrs. Barton," he snorted, turning his back to her, and rubbing his hands as if in meditation, and batting his small eyes, as if he were winking at his little god—Mammom.
Feeling that it was hopeless to plead with him for the articles, and wanting to save her fifty cents, Mrs. Barton turned slowly, pulled the yellow shawl closer over her head and shoulders, and started to leave the junk shop. Eli stood by agape, without a sign of sympathy for her, or an emotion of any kind, any more than if he had been a fence post. Mrs. Barton bowed her head as she walked away, and her daughter, Star, after casting a disdainful look at Eli, followed. Eli stood still looking after them. Peter stood still rubbing his hands and batting his eyes, as if he were preparing to offer up devotion to his deity. Then of a sudden he turned, and roared:
"Come back, Mrs. Barton!"