The Harvester lifted his hat.
“Will you kindly tell the lady of the house that I wish to speak with her?”
“What name, please?”
“I want to show her some fine mushrooms, freshly gathered,” he answered.
How she did it the Harvester never knew. The first thing he realized was that the door had closed before his face, and the basket had been picked deftly from his fingers and was on the other side. After a short time the maid returned.
“What do you want for them, please?”
The last thing on earth the Harvester wanted to do was to part with those mushrooms, so he took one long, speculative look down the hall and named a price he thought would be prohibitive.
“One dollar a dozen.”
“How many are there?”
“I count them as I sell them. I do not know.”