"No, he won't!" said the landlord, becoming more and more eager. "Say three dollars for the lot."
"I daon't know but what I want some o' them traout myself," began Deacon Hawkins, peering more closely at the largest prize. "It's hard times,—and a dollar a paound. I've got some folks comin' and Elder Holloway's to be at my haouse. I don't know but I oughter—"
"I'll take 'em, Jack," interrupted the landlord, testily. "I spoke first. Three pounds, and two is five pounds, and—"
"I'll give another dollar for the small traout," exclaimed Deacon Hawkins. "He can't have 'em all."
The landlord might have hesitated even then, but the excitement was catching, and Squire Jones was actually, but slowly, taking out his pocket-book.
"Five! There's your five, Jack. The big fish are mine. Take your money. Fetch 'em in," broke out old Livermore.
"There's my dollar,—and there's my traout,—" squealed the deacon.
"I was just a-goin' to saay—" at that moment growled the deep, heavy bass voice of Squire Jones.
"Too late," said the landlord. "He's taken my money. Come in, Jack. Come in and get yours, Deacon," and Jack walked on into the Washington House with six dollars in his hand, just as a boy he knew stuck his head under Squire Jones's arm and shouted:
"Jack!—Jack! Why didn't yer put 'em up at auction?"