“What's the price of a boat like that?” indicating the Comfort with a kick in her direction.
“About two hundred and fifty dollars, I believe,” I answered.
“You believe! Don't you know?”
“No. I bought that boat second-hand.”
He did not refer to the boat again; apparently forgot it altogether. His next move was to rise and turn toward the door. I watched him, wondering what was going to happen next. He had a habit of jumping from one subject to another which was bewildering.
“What's that fellow doing off there?” he asked, suddenly.
I looked where he was pointing.
“That is Zeb Kendrick,” I answered. “He's raking for quahaugs.”
“Raking for what hogs?”
“Quahaugs. What you New Yorkers call clams.”