“Twenty cents!” repeated the farmer, in surprise. “Wal, I should say that eggs was high. Things must have riz up like mighty in Newport lately. Mebbe I can find some more for you;” and going to the door of the kitchen, he called out: “Betsy! Betsy! can’t you rake up a few more eggs somewhere? There’s a chap out here payin’ a good price for ’em.”
“Tom—I mean captain,” whispered Bob, pulling the young trader by his coat-sleeve, “you can’t afford to give so much for those eggs. You’ll certainly—”
“Now, Mr. Jennings,” interrupted Tom, “you hold your tongue. I guess I know what I am about.”
“But, captain,” persisted the fisher-boy, “you can’t make a cent on—”
“Now, look here,” said the young trader, angrily, “once for all, will you keep still? What do you know about speculating? Those eggs are worth as much to me as they are to him; and, if I had owned them in the first place, I wouldn’t have sold them for less than twenty cents. I don’t want to swindle the man. Now you go to the boat and get some baskets and pails.”
Bob reluctantly started off to obey the order, and, just at that moment, the farmer returned, rubbing his hands with delight when he thought of the bargain he had made.
“Now, then,” said he, “the old woman says there’s ten pounds of butter in that ar’ kag. What’s it wuth? You can see that it is fresh an’ nice. Betsy always gets a higher price for her butter and eggs than any one else in the country.”
“Does she?” inquired Tom. “Then I’ll give you twenty-two cents a pound for it.”
“Wal, I declare to goodness!” ejaculated the farmer, “how things have riz up! A feller can live easy when he can get such prices as them for what he has to sell.”
As the man spoke, he took down a pair of scales from a nail over the door, and, having carefully tied the butter in a cloth, he said, as he held the scales up so that Tom could see the weight: