“Yes,” sais I, “and we are off, too, in no time.”
“But the trade,” said he; “let’s talk that over.”
“Haven’t time,” sais I; “it must be short meter, as you say when you are to home to Quaco, practising Sall Mody (as you call it). Mackarel is five dollars a barrel, sains thirty—say yes or no, that’s the word.”
“How can you have the conscience?” said he.
“I never talk of conscience in trade,” sais I; “only of prices. Bargain or no bargain, that’s the ticket.”
“I can’t,” he said.
“Well, then, there is an end of it,” says I. “Good bye, friend Judd.”
Sais he: “You have a mighty short way with you, my friend.”
“A short way is better than a long face,” said I.
“Well,” said he, “I can’t do without the sains (nets) no how I can fix it, so I suppose I must give the price. But I hope I may be skinned alive if you ain’t too keen.”