The newcomer took out a paper full of tobacco and a long clay pipe, filled it, and pounded the table with his cane.
A barefoot girl brought him a brazier full of hot coals and a large earthenware cruse with a pewter cover. He took out from his vest-pocket a pair of small copper pincers, which he used to pick up bits of coal and put them in his pipe, drew the cruse to him, leaned back, and made himself as comfortable as the small space would allow.
“How much do you have to pay for a paper o’ tobacco like the one you’ve got there, master?” asked Salmand, as he began to fill his little pipe from a sealskin pouch held together with a red string.
“Sixpence,” said the man, adding, as if to apologize for such extravagance, “it’s very good for the lungs, as you might say.”
“How’s business?” Salmand went on, striking fire to light his pipe.
“Well enough, and thank you kindly for asking, well enough, but I’m getting old, as you might say.”
“Well,” said Rasmus Squint, “but then you’ve no need to run after customers, since they’re all brought to you.”
“Ay,” laughed the man, “in respect of that, it’s a good business, and, moreover, you don’t have to talk yourself hoarse persuading folks to buy your wares; they have to take ’em as they come, they can’t pick and choose.”
“And they don’t want anything thrown in,” Rasmus went on, “and don’t ask for more than what’s rightly comin’ to ’em.”