"Bonjour, m'sieu's!" said the new-comer. "I'm lookin' for buy some lemon'. You got some, no?"
Mr. Quirk spoke irritably. "Sure. We've got a few, but they ain't for sale."
The stranger—Quirk remembered him as the Frenchman, Doret, whom he had seen at Sheep Camp—smiled confidently.
"Oh yes! Everyt'ing is for sale if you pay 'nough for him," said he.
Now this fellow had broken the thread of a conversation into which a vague undertone of acrimony was creeping—a conversation that gave every indication of developing into an agreeable and soul-satisfying difference of opinion, if not even into a loud and free-spoken argument of the old familiar sort. To have the promise of an invigorating quarrel frustrated by an idiotic diversion concerning lemons caused both old men to turn their pent-up exasperation upon the speaker.
"We've got use for our lemons and we're going to keep them," said Tom.
"We're lemon-eaters—full of acid—that's us."
"We wouldn't give lemon aid to nobody." Jerry grinned in malicious enjoyment of his own wit.
"You got how many?" 'Poleon persisted.
"Oh, 'bout enough! Mebbe a dozen or two."
"I buy 'em. Dere's poor seeck lady—"