Jehoshaphat stared aghast.
“Wonderful high for flour,” the trader continued, in apologetic explanation; “but flour’s wonderful scarce.”
“Tisn’t right!” Jehoshaphat declared. “Eighteen dollars a barrel for Early Rose? ’Tisn’t right!”
The key was restored to the nail.
“I can’t pay it, Mister Wull. No, no, man, I can’t do it. Eighteen! Mercy o’ God! ’Tisn’t right! ’Tis too much for Early Rose.”
The trader wheeled.
“An’ I won’t pay it,” said Jehoshaphat.
“You don’t have to,” was the placid reply.
Jehoshaphat started. Alarm—a sudden vision of his children—quieted his indignation. “But, Mister Wull, sir,” he pleaded, “I got t’ have it. I—why—I just got t’ have it!”
The trader was unmoved.