“Is this Mr. Eldridge?” I asked.
“Thet’s me,” he replied. “Been havin’ a look over the department store? I ain’t got in my elevators, an’ the outing department [here he looked at my golfing tweeds] ain’t much to brag about, but I’ve got ’most everything in thar except the town hearse an’ I’m savin’ that for my mother-in-law.”
By George! I thought, here’s one of the real old-timers, nothing taciturn about him, and I pointed to the modest selection I had made and asked him what the price was.
“Well, as to price,” he replied, taking off his hat and meditatively scratching his head, “that’s the worst of the business. I never just know what my things are worth. Them chairs came from old widow Crocker’s, over by Forestdale. She’d never sell ’em till she died, an’ then she couldn’t help herself an’ her son-in-law cleaned the place out, an’ I got quite a lot of stuff an’ paid him for the lot. What d’you say to a couple o’ dollars apiece?”
I said, “Yes,” as soberly as I could. I would have given much more.
“As to that lantern, it’s a good ’un and the glass is all right. I shall have to get at least four dollars.”
“All right,” said I, cheerfully, for I had seen a smaller one in Chatham go for eight just a few days before. “And how about the pepper pots?”
“Oh, you kin have ’em for—let’s see—’bout seventy-five apiece.” And I agreed.
“What do you do with all this stuff?” I asked, as he helped me to dispose of my treasures in an already well-filled car.
“Oh, mostly I sell to the Portugees that come here farmin’ and cranberryin’. Now an’ then I get some old stuff same as you jest picked up, but generally it’s the newer kind they like the best. I jest set that there sign up ’cause I see every durn fellow ’long the road what has a toothpick or a shavin’ mug to sell puts up a sign, an’ so, says I, guess I’ll stick up one too.”