“Well, then, husband, you recollect that cask of old flaxseed out in—”
“Flaxseed!” he exclaimed, his voice absolutely sounding over the whole house, at the same time the blood rushing to his face, “flaxseed!—did you sell that flaxseed? Is it, then, possible?”
“Pray,” said Mrs. M., “what is the meaning of your unwonted excitement? What have I done to raise this awful storm?”
“Done?” said he, “done? That flaxseed!—was it, then, that?” he paused. “And pray what did you get for it?”
“There was nearly a bushel of it,” replied Mrs. M., “and I was allowed three dollars for it.”
“Three dollars a bushel!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it must be that—it must be.”
The whole truth was now before him. He understood the length and breadth of the matter. His wife was the dupe of a keen and practiced pedler; but she was less a dupe than himself. Slowly putting his hand into his pocket, he took thence a paper, which he handed to his wife, and bid her open it. She did so; and in it was a spoonful of what was once flaxseed.
Judge her surprise!
“Husband!” said she, “what does this mean?”
“Mean?” said he, “why it means that I am more of a fool than yourself. You sold a bushel of flaxseed for three dollars, and I paid one dollar for a spoonful of it. That is what it means.”