“I didn’t know that I left it so,” said Harry, twisting his features, and scratching his head in great perplexity. “What can it have been? 30—30—not blankets, eh?” (Harry was becoming banteringly bitter.) “He couldn’t have got thirty guns, could he? or thirty knives, or thirty copper kettles?”
“Perhaps it was thirty pounds of tea,” suggested Charley.
“No doubt it was thirty pipes,” said Peter Mactavish.
“Oh, that was it!” cried Harry, “that was it! thirty pipes, to be sure. What an ass I am!”
“And pray what is that?” said Mactavish, pointing sarcastically to an entry in the previous account—“5 yards of superfine Annette. Really, Mr. Somerville, I wish you would pay more attention to your work and less to the conversation.”
“Oh dear!” cried Harry, becoming almost hysterical under the combined effects of chagrin at making so many mistakes, and suppressed merriment at the idea of selling Annettes by the yard. “Oh, dear me—”
Harry could say no more, but stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth and turned away.
“Well, sir,” said the offended Peter, “when you have laughed to your entire satisfaction, we will go on with our work, if you please.”
“All right,” cried Harry, suppressing his feelings with a strong effort; “what next?”
Just then a tall, raw-boned man entered the store, and rudely thrusting Baptiste aside, asked if he could get his supplies now.