“Eighteen!” cried Jehoshaphat, flushing. “Mercy o’ God! I says ’tisn’t right.”
“Tis the price.”
“’Tisn’t right!”
Wull’s eyes were how flashing. His lips were drawn thin over his teeth. His brows had fallen again. From the ambush they made he glared at Jehoshaphat.
“I say,” said he, in a passionless voice, “that the price o’ flour at Satan’s Trap is this day eighteen.”
Jehoshaphat was in woful perplexity.
“Eighteen,” snapped Wull. “Hear me?”
They looked into each other’s eyes. Outside the storm raged, a clean, frank passion; for nature is a fair and honest foe. In the little office at the back of John Wull’s shop the withered body of the trader shook with vicious anger. Jehoshaphat’s round, brown, simple face was gloriously flushed; his head was thrown back, his shoulders were squared, his eyes were sure and fearless.
“’Tis robbery!” he burst out.
Wull’s wrath exploded. “You bay-noddy!” he began; “you pig of a punt-fisherman; you penniless, ragged fool; you man without a copper; you sore-handed idiot! What you whinin’ about? What right you got t’ yelp in my office?”