Now, if I was to
spill the salt here--"
He put his Ii and on the salt-cellar, as if to do so, but Sally
rapped his knuckles with a fork.
"None of your nonsense, sir! Give Mr. Casti some more meat,
instead."
It was a merry party. The noise of talk grew so loud that it was
only the keenness of habitual attention on Sally's part which
enabled her to observe that a customer was knocking on the counter.
She darted out, but returned with a disappointed look on her face.
"Pickles?" asked her husband, frowning.
Sally nodded.
"Now, look here, Waymark," cried O'Gree, rising in indignation from
his seat. "Look here, Mr. Casti. The one drop of bitterness in our
cup is--pickles; the one thing that threatens to poison our
happiness is--pickles. We're always being asked for pickles; just
as if the people knew about it, and came on purpose!"
"Knew About what?" asked Waymark, in astonishment.
"Why, that we mayn't sell 'em! A few doors off there's a scoundrel
of a grocer. Now, his landlord's the same as ours, and when we took
this shop there was one condition attached. Because the grocer sells
pickles, and makes a good thing of them, we had to undertake that,
in that branch of commerce, we wouldn't compete with him.
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