“An’ how much was that, Moses?”
“Mother,” he observed, “didn’t hold a wonderful lot with half measures.”
’Twas no answer to my question.
“She always ’lowed,” says he, with a mystifyingly elaborate wave and accent, “that doin’ was better than gettin’.”
I still must wait.
“‘Moses,’ says she,” he pursued, “‘don’t you mind the price o’ fish; you cotch un. Fish,’ says she, ‘is fish; but prices goes up an’ down, accordin’ t’ the folly o’ men. You do,’ says she; ‘an’ you leave what you gets t’ take care of itself.’ An’ I ’low,” says Moses, gently, a smile transfiguring his vacant face, “that mother knowed.”
’Twas all, it seemed to me, a defensive argument.
“An’ mother ’lowed, afore she died,” he added, looking up to a gray sky, wherein a menace of snow dwelt, “that a good man would save his Queen from rascals.”
“Ay,” I complained; “but what was the bid that won from Eli Flack?”