“Then let me tell you,” said he, in a low, solemn voice, hitching his chair at the same time nearer to the old woman, who sat with open mouth and staring eyes, eager to devour the wished-for secret: “These dollars of mine, you know, Mrs. Brown—” here he stopped, keeping her in the most provoking suspense imaginable.
“Yes, yes; the dollars, the dollars.”
“These dollars of mine, you know, Mrs. Brown, why they are dollars—hey?”
“Yes, the dollars, the dollars; go on, go on—where do they come from? Mr. Bob, where do you get them?—where do you get them?”
“Why, I get them somewhere, you know; but where do you think?”
“Yes, yes, you get them somewhere; I always thought you got them somewhere: I always told everybody I knew you must get them somewhere.”
“Very well, Mrs. Brown.”
“Very well, Mr. Lee; but where do you get them? that is the question—you have not told me.”
“Where do I get them,” said Bob, slowly and solemnly, and rubbing his hands together, screwing up his mouth, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, while the old lady was on the tenter-hooks of suspense and expectation. “Where do I get them? Now what do you think, Mrs. Brown, of my old black hen?”
“Your old black hen! What do you mean?”