I had jest arrived at this crysis in my thoughts, and had also got my yarn wound up—my yarn and my revery endin’ up at jest the same time, when Betsey came to the foot of the stairs and called out—
“Josiah Allen’s wife, a gentleman is below, and craves an audience with you.”
I sot back my swifts, and went down, expectin’ from the reverential tone of her voice to see a United States Governor, or a Deacon at the very least. But it wasn’t either of ’em, it was a peddler. He wanted to know if I could get some dinner for him, and I thinkin’ one more trial wouldn’t kill me said I would. He was a loose jinted sort of a chap, with his hat sot onto one side of his head, but his eyes had a twinkle to ’em, that give the idee that he knew what he was about.
After dinner he kep’ a bringin’ on his goods from his cart, and praisin’ ’em up, the lies that man told was enough to apaul the ablest bodied man, but Betsey swallowed every word. After I had coldly rejected all his other overtures for tradin’, he brought on a strip of stair carpetin’, a thin striped yarn carpet, and says he—
“Can’t I sell you this beautiful carpet? it is the pure Ingrain.”
“Ingrain,” says I, “so be you Ingrain as much.”
“I guess I know,” says he, “for I bought it of old Ingrain himself, I give the old man 12 shillin’s a yard for it, but seein’ it is you, and I like your looks so much, and it seems so much like home to me here, I will let you have it for 75 cents, cheaper than dirt to walk on, or boards.”
“I don’t want it,” says I, “I have got carpets enough.”
“Do you want it for 50 cents?” says he follerin’ me to the wood-box.
“No!” says I pretty sharp, for I don’t want to say no two times, to anybody.