"What are Plymouth Rocks?" he demanded.
"He—hens, sir."
"Hens at a dollar apiece?"
"Thoroughbreds, sir. Extry fine stock. I raised 'em myself."
"H-m. You've charged them twice."
"Eh?"
"Here's an item: 'Twelve Plymouth Rocks, twelve dollars;' and farther down: 'Twelve Plymouth Rocks, eighteen dollars.'"
"Oh, yes; o' course. Ye see, I sold you a dozen first, of the dollar kind. Then I thought as how, bein' fine young birds, you'd be tempted fer to eat 'em, an' a dozen don't go fur on the table. So I up an' sold ye another dozen, extry ol' stock an' remarkable high-bred, fer a dollar-an'-a-half each. Which is dirt cheap because they's too old to eat an' jest right fer layers."
"Are they here?"
"Every one of 'em."