She stopped at the pavement in front of a provision store, and a pale, stout man, in the long over-shirt of his business, came out to receive her orders. He stood, passing his hand through the top of a barrel of beans, and listened to Mrs. Munger with a humorous, patient smile.
“Mr. Gates, I want you to send me up a leg of lamb for dinner—a large one.”
“Last year's, then,” suggested Gates.
“No; this year's,” insisted Mrs. Munger; and Gates gave way with the air of pacifying a wilful child, which would get, after all, only what he chose to allow it.
“All right, ma'am; a large leg of this year's lamb—grown to order. Any peas, spinnage, cucumbers, sparrowgrass?”
“Southern, I suppose?” said Mrs. Munger.
“Well, not if you want to call 'em native,” said Gates.
“Yes, I'll take two bunches of asparagus, and some peas.”
“Any strawberries?—natives?” suggested Gates.
“Nonsense!”