"You are much obliged," she answered gravely, mixing her pronouns in her haste to slip the coin inside her damp mitten. "I wish you a merry Thanksgiving."
With a whoop of delight she bounded down the steps, snatched Allee's hand, and rushed away up the street to the butcher shop for their chicken, never pausing for breath until she had dropped the money onto the counter before the astonished proprietor, who was making ready to close his shop for the day. "A quarter's worth of chicken, Mr. Jones," she panted. "I was afraid you would be gone before we could collect from the Judge."
"Sorry, Peace," answered the astonished man, "but I haven't any chickens as small as that."
"Haven't you a cheap old hen?" she faltered, almost too disappointed to speak.
"No, I am afraid not."
"And you can't sell me a piece of chicken?"
"No, we never do that, either."
"Oh, dear," sighed Allee. "We swep' that walk all for nothing!"
But Peace's bright eyes had caught sight of a tall, wooden bucket on the counter, and now she demanded, "Is that oysters?"
"Yes, jimdandies."