“Why, this,” says he, “is Huckler’s Row.”
“What!” says I, “are these the stores where the traders in Huckler’s Row keep?”
And says he, “Yes.”
“Well, then,” says I to myself, “I have a pesky good mind to go in and have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my eye-teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they can do what there ain’t a man in our place can do; and I should just like to know what sort of stuff these ’ere Portland chaps are made of.” So in I goes into the best-looking store among ’em. And I see some biscuit lying on the shelf, and says I,—
“Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them ’ere biscuits?”
“A cent apiece,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “I shan’t give you that, but, if you’ve a mind to, I’ll give you two cents for three of them, for I begin to feel a little as though I would like to take a bite.”
“Well,” says he, “I wouldn’t sell ’em to anybody else so, but, seeing it’s you, I don’t care if you take ’em.”
I knew he lied, for he never seen me before in his life. Well, he handed down the biscuits, and I took ’em, and walked round the store awhile, to see what else he had to sell. At last says I,—
“Mister, have you got any good cider?”