could only close the bargain with the utmost speed, to be safe from
ridicule.

"Your price?" I asked.

"Fix it yourself, sir," said the man, determined to confuse me. "You
are doubtless thoroughly acquainted with poultry."

"The nankeen--colored one," spoke up again the bell-like and
inexorable voice from the other window, "is a yellow Crèvecoeur,
very well formed and lively-looking: the slate-colored one is a
Cochin-China, with only a few of the white feathers lacking from
the head. They are chef-d'oeuvres, and are worth fully forty francs
apiece."

"Only look, sir, at their claws and bills, see their tongues, and
observe under their wings: they are young, wholesome and of fine
strain--"

He was running on when I stopped him: "Here are a hundred francs for
you, brave man."

The patchwork blouse cut a caper, a look of lively joy shot from
the man's eyes, where a tear was gathering, and the wagon, from its
bursting cover, gave utterance to a sob.

"Why sell them," I asked, touched in spite of myself, "if you are so
attached to them? Is the money indispensable to you? I might possibly
make an advance."