“Matter? An' you want to know what's the matter? Well, kindly please direct them handsome eyes of yourn at that there pail settin' on the table. See it?”
Smoke nodded.
“Well, I want to tell you one thing, just one thing. They's just exactly, preecisely, nor nothin' more or anythin' less'n twenty-eight eggs in the pail, an' they cost, every danged last one of 'em, just exactly seven great big round iron dollars a throw. If you stand in cryin' need of any further items of information, I'm willin' and free to impart.”
“Go on,” Smoke requested.
“Well, that geezer you was dickerin' with is a big buck Indian. Am I right?”
Smoke nodded, and continued to nod to each question.
“He's got one cheek half gone where a bald-face grizzly swatted him. Am I right? He's a dog-trader—right, eh? His name is Scar-Face Jim. That's so, ain't it? D'ye get my drift?”
“You mean we've been bidding—?”
“Against each other. Sure thing. That squaw's his wife, an' they keep house on the hill back of the hospital. I could 'a' got them eggs for two a throw if you hadn't butted in.”
“And so could I,” Smoke laughed, “if you'd kept out, blame you! But it doesn't amount to anything. We know that we've got the corner. That's the big thing.”