One June day, as Eph was slitting blue-fish at the little pier which he had built on the bay shore, near his rude ice-house, two men came up.
“Hullo, Eph!”
“Hullo!”
“We 've got about sick, tradin' down to the wharf; we can't git no fair show. About one time in three, they tell us they don't want our fish, and won't take 'em unless we heave 'em in for next to nothin',—and we know there ain't no sense in it. So we just thought we 'd slip down and see 'f you would n't take 'em, seein's you 've got ice, and send 'em up with yourn.”
Eph was taken all aback with this mark of confidence. The offer must be declined. It evidently sprang from some mere passing vexation.
“I can't buy fish,” said he. “I have no scales to weigh 'em.”
“Then send ourn in separate berrels,” said one of the men.
“But I haven't any money to pay you,” he said. “I only get my pay once a month.”
“We'll git tick at William's, and you can settle 'th us when you git your pay.”
“Well,” said he, unable to refuse, “I 'll take 'em, if you say so.”