“Ay,” Jonathan admitted, “I got one.”
“An’ that’s what brings you here.”
“It be,” Jonathan replied, defiantly.
The silence was disquieting.
“I’m ’lowin’,” Jonathan stammered, “t’—t’-t’ sort o’ get four tins o’ beef.”
The trader beat his calf.
“An’ six pound o’ butter,” said Jonathan, “an’ some pickles.”
“Anything else?” the trader snapped.
“Ay,” said Jonathan, “they is.”
The trader sniffed.