“That depends on the book. Of course it costs more to print a large one than a small one.”
“That needn't make no difference,” said Aunt Jane, after long deliberation. “James has two hundred dollars sewed up on the inside of the belt he insists on wearin', instead of Christian suspenders, ain't you, James?”
“Yes'm, two hundred and four dollars in my belt and seventy-six cents in my pocket.”
“It's from his store,” Mrs. Ball explained. “He sold it to a relative of one of them heathen women.”
“It was worth more'n three hundred,” he said regretfully.
“Now, James, you know a small store like that ain't worth no three hundred dollars. I wouldn't have let you took three hundred, 'cause it wouldn't be honest.”
The arrival of a small and battered trunk created a welcome diversion. “Where's your trunk, Uncle James?” asked Ruth.
“I ain't a needin' of no trunk,” he answered, “what clothes I've got is on me, and that there valise has more of my things in it. When my clothes wears out, I put on new ones and leave the others for some pore creeter what may need 'em worse'n me.”
Aunt Jane followed Joe upstairs, issuing caution and direction at every step. “You can set outside now, Joe Pendleton,” she said, “and see that them hosses don't run away, and as soon as I get some of my things hung up so's they won't wrinkle no more, I'll come out and pay you.”
Joe obeyed, casting longing eyes at a bit of blue gingham that was fluttering among the currant bushes in the garden. Mr. Ball, longing for conversation with his kind, went out to the gate and stood looking up at him, blinking in the bright sunlight. “Young feller,” he said, “I reckon that starboard hoss is my old mare. Where'd you get it?”