“Oh, a napkin? Why, every time I’d wipe my mouthee the soupee would come through these confounded holes on my hands. You must obliterate them if you wish to sell him. He’s a regular skeleton.”
“Not for eatee—for pollah table, for buleau—lookee pletty.”
“Oh, a sort of tidy for the bureau. But these holes spoil him, I say. The dirt would show right through him. Here, I’ll give you six dollah for him. Quickee—comee—bargain—cashee—hoop lah!” I tried to carry the bargain by storm.
The Chinaman could not deny that dirt would show through the drawn-work. He looked perplexed and human, but his speech had the sound of a talking machine.
“Sem dollah ninety-fye cent.”
“Sew up the holes,” I said, “and I’ll give it. Nobody’ll ever buy him full of holes. Why he couldn’t hold water, he wouldn’t even hold molasses. Here’s your six dollah, last chancee.”
“Bully hole! Vela fine hole! Sem dollah ninety-fye cent. Allee hole flee in bahgain.” As he said this his words became animated, but his face was like yellow wax.
“No fleas or flea holes in mine. You’ll never sell him to a Yankee with those flea holes in him. Goodbye!”
He eyed me with patient disgust and put away his finery. As I went out he said, “Bettee fye dollah sell him to-mollah.”
I knew that the piece was worth eight dollars in Colombian money, but I didn’t like to give in, and thought it quite as well to return another time and buy it. But when I did return three days later the Chinaman pretended that the bureau cover was gone, thinking probably that I wanted to claim the five dollars that he had offered to bet. He did not seem anxious to sell me anything. But I had taken a fancy to the cover and wanted it. I offered him eight dollah and fye cent, but he said: