"I hope you're well, lord," said the little woman; "an' if ye ain't, why--what I've got here'll do ye more good than a doctor. I reckon ye hev a mother, an' naterally she thinks the world of ye. Well, sir, I bring ye a golden word from her very lips. Jest listen to this. I ain't much on the elocute, but I'm goin' ter do my best."
We listened patiently as she declaimed half a page of wretched prose. Her voice rose and fell in a sing-song cadence, but certain modulations of tone lent charm to the absurd words. When she finished her eyes were full of tears.
"That is very nice indeed," said Ajax softly. "I should like to buy your book."
Her hands trembled.
"I sell it in cloth at--one dollar; in sheep at--one, six bits; in reel moroccy, with gold toolin' at--two an' a half."
"We must certainly secure a copy in gold and morocco."
Her eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"Two copies," I suggested rashly: "one for you, Ajax; one for me."
"Ye kin take yer copy in cloth," said the little woman, compassionately, "sein' as ye're only workin' for yer board."
"In gold and morocco," I replied firmly. "The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. A golden word from mother cannot be fittingly bound in fustian."