Jobe studied a minit and then looked up sudden like, as
if something had broke loose in his mind, and says he:
“Why, it would be of the value of sixty pounds of wheat.”
“Well, then,” says I, “what would be the value of sixty pounds of wheat in Chicago?”
“Why—why,” says he, “it would be worth a dollar.”
“What would be the price of wheat west of Chicago?” says I.
“A leetle less than a dollar,” says he.
“What would be the price of wheat east of Chicago?” says I.
“Why, a leetle more than a dollar,” says he.
“You are a good scholar,” says I. “You are a larnin.”