A dirty-looking man with a short beard fluffy and thick like a
yellow hen's tail lurked behind the counter in the dark little
shop. She put her bundles on the counter, opened them. "How
much can I get for these things?" she asked.
The man examined every piece minutely. "There's really nothing
here but the summer dress and the hat," said he. "And they're
out of style. I can't give you more than four dollars for the
lot--and one for the pistol which is good but old style now.
Five dollars. How'll you have it?"
Susan folded the things and tied up the bundles. "Sorry to
have troubled you," she said, taking one in either hand.
"How much did you expect to get, lady?" asked the pawnbroker.
"Twenty-five dollars."
He laughed, turned toward the back of the shop. As she reached
the door he called from his desk at which he seemed about to
seat himself, "I might squeeze you out ten dollars."
"The plumes on the hat will sell for thirty dollars," said
Susan. "You know as well as I do that ostrich feathers have
gone up."
The man slowly advanced. "I hate to see a customer go away
unsatisfied," said he. "I'll give you twenty dollars."
"Not a cent less than twenty-five. At the next place I'll ask
thirty--and get it."
"I never can stand out against a lady. Give me the stuff."
Susan put it on the counter again. Said she:
"I don't blame you for trying to do me.
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