"I knowed it weren't,—I knowed that ring were worth five times them breeches, and I'd never see its like ag'in. But I felt sorry for him, he wanted it so bad."
"No, I mean just the other way," I said sharply, "you paid a nickel for that prize-box, didn't you?"
"Yes'm."
"And there was candy in it?"
"A little-grain."
"And you ate it?"
"What there were of it."
"And now you want to trade him the ring, which cannot be worth more than two cents, for his Sunday breeches."
The "born trader" looked at me pityingly. "Miss Loring," he said, "womenfolks haint got no understanding of prize-boxes. Sometimes you pay your nickel down and don't git ary thing in 'em; and then ag'in there's jewelries nobody can't tell what they worth, they so fine. Thaint nary ring like that ever been seed in these parts. Iry Atkins's got the onliest ring like it on Perilous, or I reckon in Kent County, or maybe in Kentucky! What's breeches to that?"
To this master argument, the fact that the ring would not keep Iry's legs warm in winter seemed a puerile answer; still, with cold weather coming on, and clothing scarce as hens' teeth, I was compelled to break up the trade, and to forbid Geordie's making any more.