Em’line simpered, and hung her head with the little hard knob of red hair at the back. “How’d you guess, Mr. Beggs?”
“The Land o’ Goshen, ye be!” exclaimed the ragman, in great surprise; “well, who’s th’ man, pray tell?”
“It’s Isr’el Sawyer,” said Mrs. Hinman, quickly. “An’ we better be a settlin’ up this rag business, for I’ve got all my work a-waitin’ for me in th’ house.”
The ragman smothered something in his straggly beard that, if heard, would not be very complimentary to Isr’el Sawyer’s good judgment. “That’s so, Mis’ Hinman,” he declared briskly; “well, now, we must see what this ’ere bag weighs. ’Tis heftier, ain’t it?”
“I sh’d think ’twas,” cried Em’line, with greedy eyes, and an expansive smile.
“Well, now, bein’s you’re goin’ to git married, I s’pose we must make these rags come to as much as possible. Goin’ to take ’em out in tin?” All the while he was adjusting the iron hook in place on the steelyards and getting ready for the final swing of the bag.
“I guess not,” snapped Em’line; “I’m goin’ to have money an’ nothin’ else.”
“I’d just as lieves,” assented Mr. Beggs; “there she goes!” Then, when the bag ceased to tremble as it hung from the hook, and the final notch on the long bar had been decided on, “Fif—teen pounds an’ a quarter—”
“There’s twice as much,” cried Em’line, with an angry twitch at the steelyards; “let me weigh ’em myself.”
“No, sir—ee!” declared Mr. Beggs, quite insulted; “no one does th’ weighin’ on them steelyards but myself. You can see all you want to, an’ there ’tis, an’ you can’t make no more, not a mite, but fifteen pounds an’ a quarter. But I ain’t anxious to trade with you to-day, Miss Em’line,” and he slid out the hook from the strings of the bag; “so after you’ve picked out your tinware, Mis’ Hinman, or do you want a broom to-day, or do you want money, I ain’t partic’lar which, why, I’ll say good day to ye both.”