“Flour,” he ventured, weakly—“one barrel.”
Wull turned. “It’s gone up,” said he.
“Have it, now!” Jehoshaphat exclaimed. “I ’lowed last fall, when I paid eight,” he proceeded, “that she’d clumb as high as she could get ’ithout fallin’. But she’ve gone up, says you? Dear man!”
“Sky high,” said the trader.
“Dear man!”
The stove was serene and of good conscience. It labored joyously in response to the clean-souled wind. For a moment, while the trader watched the snow through his bushy brows and Jehoshaphat Rudd hopelessly scratched his head, its hearty, honest roar was the only voice lifted in the little office at the back of John Wull’s shop.
“An’ why?” Jehoshaphat timidly asked.
“Scarcity.”
“Oh,” said Jehoshaphat, as though he understood. He paused. “Isn’t you got as much as you had?” he inquired.
The trader nodded.