The door closed again. Presently it opened and the maid knelt on the floor before him and counted the mushrooms one by one into a dish pan and in a few minutes brought back seven dollars and fifty cents. The chagrined Harvester, feeling like a thief, put the money in his pocket, and turned away.
“I was to tell you,” said she, “that you are to bring all you have to sell here, and the next time please go to the kitchen door.”
“Must be fond of mushrooms,” said the disgruntled Harvester.
“They are a great delicacy, and there are visitors.” The Harvester ached to set the girl to one side and walk through the house, but he did not dare; so he returned to the street, whistled to Betsy to come, and went to the next gate. Here he hesitated. Should he risk further snubbing at the front door or go back at once. If he did, he only would see a maid. As he stood an instant debating, the door of the house he just had left opened and the girl ran after him. “If you have more, we will take them,” she called.
The Harvester gasped for breath.
“They have to be used at once,” he suggested.
“She knows that. She wants to treat her friends.”
“Well she has got enough for a banquet,” he said. “I—I don't usually sell more than a dozen or two in one place.”
“I don't see why you can't let her have them if you have more.”
“Perhaps I have orders to fill for regular customers,” suggested the Harvester.