“Isn’t you got enough in the storehouse t’ last till the mail-boat runs?”
“Plenty, thank God!”
“Scarcity,” Jehoshaphat mused. “Mm-m-m! Oh, I sees,” he added, vacantly. “Well, Mister Wull,” he sighed, “I ’low I’ll take one of Early Rose an’ pay the rise.”
Wull whistled absently.
“Early Rose,” Jehoshaphat repeated, with a quick, keen glance of alarm.
The trader frowned.
“Rose,” Jehoshaphat muttered. He licked his lips. “Of Early,” he reiterated, in a gasp, “Rose.”
“All right, Jehoshaphat.”
Down came the big key from the nail. Jehoshaphat’s round face beamed. The trader slapped his ledger shut, moved toward the door, but stopped dead, and gazed out of the window, while his brows fell over his eyes, and he fingered the big key.
“Gone up t’ eighteen,” said he, without turning.