“Nope, I’m in a hurry, and there’s a pile of good seasoned wood in the thing.”
“She knows its value, sure enough,” he said to himself, as the wagon began to climb the hill.
“Give yer twenty-five, and yer can leave it here by the road.”
“I reckon you might unpack, pa,” the gaunt woman said, a smile hovering about her mouth, adding to Abiram, “Hand up the money, and down she goes.”
In five seconds two ten-dollar bills and a five, after a searching scrutiny, found their way into Mrs. Jason’s pocket, and the clumsy piece of furniture leaned tipsily against the pasture fence exposed to the full glare of the sun.
Just as Jason Lane had remounted the seat and the wagon had begun to move again, a shout made them look round. There stood Abiram in the middle of the road, stamping and choking with rage so that he could barely speak.
“Stop! hey, stop!” he yelled; “it ain’t mahogany; it’s only stained wood. Hey, give me my money back or I’ll hev ye arrested.”
“Who said it was mahogany?” called Mrs. Jason, stopping the horse and fairly beaming with the pleasure of the contention.
Abiram hesitated a moment, felt himself caught, stammered, and said, “Mis’ Slocum did.”
“Well, go ahead and arrest Mrs. Slocum, then,” chimed in Jason, his speech for once meeting his wife’s approval.