"A dollar and a quarter!" repeated the old man, shrilly. "Take
it home with you. I don't want it."
"What will you give?" asked the poor girl, faintly.
"Fifty cents. Not a penny more."
"Fifty cents!" she repeated, in dismay, and was about to refold
it. But the thought of her rent in arrears changed her
half-formed intention.
"I'll take it, sir."
The money and ticket were handed her, and she went back to her
miserable attic-room, coughing as she went.
"Now, ma'am," said Eliakim.
His new customer was an Irish woman, by no means consumptive in
appearance, red of face and portly of figure.
"And what'll ye be givin' me for this?" she asked, displaying a
pair of pantaloons.
"Are they yours, ma'am?" asked Eliakim, with a chuckle.
"It's not Bridget McCarty that wears the breeches," said that
lady. "It's me husband's, and a dacent, respectable man he is,
barrin' the drink, which turns his head. What'll ye give for
'em?"
"Name your price," said Eliakim, whose principle it was to insist
upon his customers making the first offer.
"Twelve shillin's," said Bridget.
"Twelve shillings!" exclaimed Eliakim, holding up both hands.
"That's all they cost when they were new.
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