"I mean," said Penrod, "how much is it worth?"
"I don't know," the earl returned. "Its price is eighty-five
dollars."
"Eighty-fi--" Penrod began mechanically, but was forced to pause
and swallow a little air that obstructed his throat, as the
difference between eighty-five and two became more and more
startling. He had entered the store, rich; in the last ten
seconds he had become poverty-stricken. Eighty-five dollars was
the same as eighty-five millions.
"Shall I put it aside for you," asked the salesman-earl, "while
you look around the other stores to see if there's anything you
like better?"
"I guess--I guess not," said Penrod, whose face had grown red. He
swallowed again, scraped the floor with the side of his right
shoe, scratched the back of his neck, and then, trying to make
his manner casual and easy, "Well I can't stand around here all
day," he said. "I got to be gettin' on up the street."
"Business, I suppose?"
Penrod, turning to the door, suspected jocularity, but he found
himself without recourse; he was nonplussed.
"Sure you won't let me have that horn tied up in nice
wrapping-paper in case you decide to take it?"
Penrod was almost positive that the spirit of this question was
satirical; but he was unable to reply, except by a feeble shake
of the head--though ten minutes later, as he plodded forlornly
his homeward way, he looked over his shoulder and sent backward a
few words of morose repartee:
"Oh, I am, am I?" he muttered, evidently concluding a
conversation which he had continued mentally with the salesman.
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