"How much is it?"
"Dollar and a half."
"I'd buy it," said the farmer, longingly, "but I hain't got the price."
"Have you got any eggs?" I asked.
"Dozens of 'em. How many kin ye suck at a sittin'?"
"I don't wish to suck them; I want them to sell," I replied. "How much do you ask a dozen?"
"Six cents," he answered.
"Well," I said, "I will trade the book for ten dozen. Is that a bargain? It looks like a cinch for you."
"I meant a book about yer travels t' San Francisco," he explained, as he looked far away.
"Well, that's just what it is," I returned, bound to make a sale, or die in the attempt. "Tells all about them: how robbers shot at me in York State, bull chased me down a well in Pennsylvania, dog worried me up a tree in Illinois, cowboys rescued me from Indians in the Rocky Mountains, grizzly bear hugged—"