“Wal, I declare to gracious!” said the farmer, “has chickens riz up, too? I’ll take that for ’em; but you’ll have to help me drive ’em into the barn afore we can ketch ’em.”
While this conversation was going on, Bob returned from the boat, loaded with baskets and pails. The butter was first packed away in one of the pails, and covered with a clean, white cloth, which the farmer furnished them, and the fisher-boy then turned his attention to the eggs.
“Captain,” said he, “we ought to pack them in something. We’ll be certain to break more than half of them if we carry them loose in these baskets.”
“Can’t you give us some oats or bran?” asked Tom, turning to the farmer.
“Wal, no,” answered the man.
“Straw or hay would answer our purpose just as well,” said Bob; “and, besides, it wouldn’t cost any thing.”
“O, no; I can’t have my eggs packed in straw or hay,” drawled Tom. “It wouldn’t look well. Did you ever see eggs come into Newport packed in any thing besides oats or bran? Haven’t you any oats?” he asked, again turning to the farmer.
“Wal, yes; I’ve got some in the bundle. I’ll thrash out some for you for half a dollar.”
“Go and do it, then,” said Tom.