"A dollar and a quarter," she said.
"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."
"They cost every cint of five dollars," said Bridget. "They was made at
one of the most fashionable shops in the city.
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