I read his home-made sign aloud: “I guarantee every seed in the store. Pansy seeds a specialty.”
“Not that they all grow,” he explained. “But the guarantee keeps up the confidence of the customers. I have made more off of vegetable and flower seeds this year than caskets.”
He pulled out a chip plate and fed me with dried beef, sliced thin.
He smiled broadly, and set down a jar. The merry quip had arrived.
“Why,” he asked, “is a stick of candy like a race-horse?”
I remained silent, but looked anxious to know. Delighted with himself, he gave the ancient answer, and with it several sticks of candy. Kind reader, if you do not know the answer to the riddle, ask your neighbor.
There was no end of sweets. He skilfully sliced fresh bread, and spread it with butter and thick honey-comb. With much self-approval he insisted on crowding my pockets with supper.
“Nobody knows how they will treat you around Oil City. I go often, but never for pleasure. Only on funeral business.”
He gave me pocketfuls of the little animal crackers, so daintily cut out, that used to delight all of us as children. Since he insisted I take something more, I took figs and dates.
He held up an animal cracker, shaped like a cow, and asked: “When was beefsteak the highest?” I ventured to give the answer.