“Gentlemen!” said the pedler, who had watched the increasing enthusiasm with the most solid satisfaction, and who thought it quite time to make a strike, “gentlemen, one dollar per spoonful for this flaxseed—your only chance, don’t expect ever to offer flaxseed here again; last chance, gentlemen—who’ll—”
He was cut short by the advance of a clever, and even staid looking man, who said, “I’ll take a spoonful.”
“And I”—“and I”—“and I,” said half a dozen voices all together.
“One at a time, gentlemen,” said the pedler, “serve you all, and just as fast as I can—the sooner I get through the better.”
And so he went on, parceling out the flaxseed, and pocketing the dollars, till at last he had the pleasure—and a profound pleasure it was—to stow away in his money-wallet the 75th dollar for the 75th spoonful of flaxseed taken from an old cask in the out-room of Mr. M., in the “Old Dominion,” in part pay for a clock, but which some of the purchasers would have it had come direct from New Holland.
“Seventy-five dollars for the flaxseed,” said the pedler, “seventy-five dollars—seventy-five—that will do.”
And now the pedler’s voice was again heard, and on a somewhat higher key. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ve a still more remarkable article to dispose of—only one, and only one can have it; and the question is, who will be the fortunate purchaser. Gentle—men, this calf is for sale.”
The welkin rung. “A calf for sale!” said half a dozen. “Come, walk up—who’ll buy? Who wants a calf?”
“You’d better sell yourself,” said a roughish-looking stripling, addressing the pedler.
“Quite likely, my man,” responded the pedler. “I lately felt a good deal more like a calf than I do just now. But I’ll sell the calf first, and then think about selling myself. This calf for sale. Who bids?”