Pasco Pepperill had taken the schoolmaster with him through the market-place. He was greeted on all sides by acquaintances and would-be dealers. Pasco’s strut became more consequential as he returned the salutations, and he looked out of the corners of his eyes at his companion, to see what impression was made on him by the deference with which he was received.
“I bought wool--two hundred pounds’ worth--of that man. Coaker is his name,” said Pasco, indicating a moor farmer jogging in on his cob. “I bought last Friday. Do you see Ezra Bornagin? There, sneaking behind his missus. He’s had coals of me all the winter, on tick. Hasn’t paid a penny, and I’m in doubts whether I shall see the colour of my money. But I’m not one to be crushed by a few bad debts.” Presently, “There’s the landlady of the ‘Crown,’ at Newton. She knows where to get good spirits at a moderate figure--that hasn’t paid duty--tobacco also. Coombe Cellars is a fine place for a trade in such goods.”
“How d’ y’ do, Pepperill?” said a bluff farmer, coming up and extending an immense red hand. “Come here to buy or to sell to-day?”
“Both,” answered Pasco. “It doesn’t do to let money lie idle.”
“Ah! if a chap has got money--but when he hasn’t, that’s another matter. I want to sell.”
“What?”
“Hides; will you buy? Had bad luck with my beasts.”
“Don’t know; I’ll see.”
“It’s terrible bad times,” said the big man.
“I suppose it is--for some folks,” answered Pepperill.