“Never you mind. That knife is spoiled, and I know how. I wouldn’t give an English penny for it to-day. For why? A Dutchman don’t know how to use a knife. Consequence—he spoils it.”
Hans paused in some doubt, seeing the blame of the failure of the knife laid so fully upon his guiltless shoulders. Boston gave him no time to think, but threw open his pack.
“Now, I’ll tell you what I mean to do. You don’t deserve it; but I will do a violence to my conscience, and do something for you. Keep your fingers to yourself and feast your eyes upon that.” Here he produced a knife somewhat better than the one which Hans had returned. “Now, I’ll tell you what I will do. ’Tisn’t right, I know it; ’tisn’t behaving properly to those who bought the last lot I had, but you may have that knife for four shillings sterling. You stare. I don’t wonder, for that knife ought to bring fully ten shillings. It’s worth it, if it’s worth a farthing; but what can I do? I must put my goods down to you fellows or you won’t look at them. I am making myself a poor man for your sakes.”
“Vour shilling. Dat ish too mooch, by Shoseph!”
“Too much! I tell you I am giving the knife away—absolutely giving it away. That knife you bought before was a cheap knife, I allow that; but it was sold cheap; but I lose on this knife if I sell it at six shillings, and here I offer it to you at four. Many a time I am tempted to shut up my pack and tramp through the woods no more; but when I think that it will be impossible for you to get along without me, I repent, and sacrifice my own interests for your good. I can’t help it, if I am soft-hearted, it’s one of my little failings. I sell below cost because I hate to be hard upon poor men.”
Hans took the knife in his hands and begun to open and shut the bright blade. He had been beaten again and again by this same peddler, and did not care to be taken in once more. The polished blade shone like glass in the sunlight.
“Dat ish goot knife, eh?”
“Good! You’d better believe it’s good. Why, I know a man down to Hartford has got one of them there knives, and what do you reckon he does with it? You can’t tell, scarcely. No, ’tain’t probable you can. Then I’ll tell you. He uses it for an ax, and he can cut down a good-sized maple with it about as soon as you cut a cat-tail down with one of your clumsy axes. I don’t say that this is as good a knife as that. Probably ’tain’t; but it came out of the same mold.”
“Big price, dat. Sure dis is goot knife, eh? You sell me bad knife two, t’ree, vour dimes. Dat ish pad—dat is worser as pad. Vour shillings?”
“Four. But see here. I ain’t given you inducement to buy, it seems. Rot me ef I don’t think you are about the toughest tree I ever tried to climb. Now look at me, and see a man always ready to sacrifice himself for the good of the people. Here are a pair of combs. They are worth money—they are good combs. I throw them into the pile, and what else? Here is a good pair of shoe-buckles. I throw them in, and beg you to take the pile away for six shillings. You won’t? I thought so. You ain’t capable of it, more’s the pity. I’ll again hurt my own feelings by saying five-and-six. If you don’t take them at that I must shut up my pack. Hans Drinker, you were born to good luck. I don’t think, upon my word and honor, that any one ever had such a chance since the days of Noah. I don’t, sart’inly.”