We were a rather hungry lot, and were strongly inclined to buy of him.
But this farmer had evidently made up his mind to get comfortably rich off that single wagon load of provisions. Two years later we should not have been surprised at his prices, but at that time we were appalled. Nevertheless, some of us were buying with the recklessness of men who do not know at what hour a bullet may draw a red line below all accounts.
Just then old Jones came out in his yellow coat and his pot hat, looking greatly more like a farmer than the wagon man did. Speaking through his nose, and with that extraordinary deliberation which always made his conversation a caricature of human speech, he asked: “What are you chargin’ for turkeys? What are you chargin’ for butter?” And so on through the list, receiving a reply to each query, and carefully noting it in his thoroughly organized mind.
Then he turned to one of the men and said: “Send the regimental commissary to me.”
When the commissary came he said to him: “Take these supplies, and distribute them equitably among the different messes according to their numbers.”
By this time the farmer had become alarmed. He said: “Who’s goin’ to pay for all this?”
“I am,” said old Jones. “In my own way.”
“Well, hold on,” said the farmer.
“No, I reckon we won’t hold on,” said old Jones.
“But I’ll send for the colonel of the regiment,” said the farmer.