“Guess I better, if’n it’s goin’ to send all the white people into gales of high sterricks,” said the colored man agreeably. “You be’s the secon’ or third lot what has come to anchor here, gigglin’ and laughin’. What’s wrong wid the card, missis?”
“Only one word,” said Stargarde gently, “which is usually spelt s-a-l-e, rather than s-a-i-l, when one has anything to sell.”
“Thank you kin’ly, missis. I’ll altercate it,” and he lazily watched the two people going on their way.
“Here are eggs,” said Camperdown, “big, white ones, Stargarde, and butter like gold.”
Stargarde stopped beside a shy-faced French woman, who was standing guard over a wagon, and asked her how much her eggs were a dozen.
“Dwenty-vive cent, madam.”
“I will take two dozen, if you please, and four prints of butter.”
Camperdown looked at the woman, and seeing that he was looking at her, she immediately dropped her eyes. She was tall and neatly dressed, and wore a black shawl over her hair and pinned under her chin. “A Chezzencooker,” he muttered, then aloud, “What else have you?”
“Smells, zur; dirty sents a ztring.”
“Don’t want any of them; enough bad odors in Halifax now.”