"One of the best, ma'm," replied the post-master. "Come in, Squire," he called as a man, leading a hound, appeared at the door.
"I want a pint," said the Squire.
"All right—let me look at yo' dog." He examined the hound's teeth, punched him in the side to catch his tone, pronounced his yelp of good note, and gave the Squire a pint of liquor.
"About as peculiar case of barter as I ever saw," said Tom when the Squire withdrew with his purchase.
"Yas, mout seem so, but a good artickle of hound is a currency at this sto'."
"I heard that I might find peculiar people in this part of the country," said Mrs. Mayfield, "and I have not been disappointed."
The store-keeper smiled upon her, playing with the hound's ears. "Oh, we never disapp'int folks," he replied. "But we ain't peculiar. Higher up the mountains you might find folks that are right queer in their ways. Up thar they ain't got no money at all 'cept coon skins. Well, do you want to buy anythin'?"
"No," said Mrs. Mayfield, "not to-day."
"Got some right good snuff here if you want it."
"I don't use snuff."