“The parson haven’t said nothin’, but Tibbie’s got a notion that he’s wonderful fond o’ canned peaches,” Jonathan ventured, diffidently. “She ’lows they’ll keep his food sweet.”
“Anything else?”
“No—oh no!” Jonathan sighed. “I ’low you wouldn’t give me three pound o’ cheese?” he asked. “Not that the parson mentioned cheese, but Tibbie ’lows he’d find it healthful.” The trader nodded. “About four cans o’ peaches,” said Jonathan.
“I see,” said the trader.
Jonathan drew a great hand over his narrow brow, where the rain still lay in the furrows. It passed over his red whiskers. He shook the rain-drops from his hand.
“Oh, dear!” he sighed.
“Jonathan,” said the trader, sharply, “you’re a fool. I’ve long knowed it. But I loves a fool; an’ you’re the biggest dunderhead I ever knowed. You can have the cheese; you can have the beef; you can have the peaches. You can have un all. But—you got t’ pay.”
“Oh, ay,” said Jonathan, freely. “I’ll pay!”
“You’ll go without sweetness in your tea,” the trader burst out, “all next winter. Understand? No sweetness in your tea. That’s how you’ll pay. If you takes these things, mark you, Jonathan!—an’ hearken well—if you takes these things for your parson, there’ll be no molasses measured out for you. You’ll take your tea straight. Do you understand me, Jonathan Stock?”
“’Tis well,” said Jonathan.