An old Irish woman was haggling for a larger loan on a worn and dirty shawl.
“Sure it’s very little you’re givin’ me,” she protested. “What will I do with a quarter?”
“We don’t want it, any way. You’d better take it somewhere else.”
“Give me the money, then.”
The next person was a slender dude, who had a silk umbrella to offer.
“A dollar,” said the clerk.
“Aw, that’s vewry little, don’t you know,” drawled the young man. “It was bought at Tiffany’s, it was, ’pon me honah.”
“That is all we can give.”
“Then I must wesign myself to the sacrifice. Pass over the spondulicks.”
The next person was a young lady with spectacles and wearing a look of Bostonian culture. She had a broad flat parcel in her hand.