“A trifle over ten pounds; but we’ll call it even ten, ’cause the cloth weighs something, you know.”
“That’s all right,” said Tom. “So far, so good. Now, have you any chickens to sell?”
“Wal, no,” was the reply. “If eggs is worth that much, Betsy won’t want to sell the chickens.”
At this moment, Tom happened to look out at the door, and discovered three very fine fowls walking about the yard. They were as white as snow, and considerably larger than any the young trader had ever seen before; and, from their great size, he at once put them down as game chickens. He once heard of a man who had made a fortune by dealing in property of that kind, and here was an opportunity too good to be lost. Pointing to the chickens, he asked:
“Can that rooster fight?”
“Wal, yes,” answered the farmer; “he’s like four-cent sugar—all grit. He beats all the other chickens on the place like two hundred.”
“I thought so,” said Tom. “Do you want to sell him?”
“Wal, no; I don’t care about it.”
“I’ll give you three dollars for him and those two hens.”