So I have to buy chickens every day. I hate to, but I have to, and if
I could just go out and look around your chicken yard--"

It was right there that Mrs. Gratz had a suspicion that Santa Claus
stood before her.

"But I don't sell such a chicken yard, yet," she said. The man wiped
his forehead.

"Sure not," he said nervously. "I was goin' to say look around your
chicken yard and see the chickens. I can't buy chickens without I see
them, can I? Some folks might, but I can't with the kind of customers
I've got. I've got mighty particular customers, and I pay extra prices
so as to get the best for them, and when I go out and look around the
chicken yard--"

"How much you pay for such nice, big, fat chickens, mebby?" asked Mrs.
Gratz.

"Well, I'll tell you," said the man. "Seven cents a pound is regular,
ain't it? Well, I pay twelve. I'll give you twelve cents, and pay you
right now, and take all the chickens you've got. That's my rule. But,
if you want to let me go out and see the chickens first, and pick out
the kind my regular customers like, I pay twenty cents a pound. But I
won't pay twenty cents without I can see the chickens first."

"Sure," said Mrs. Gratz. "I wouldn't do it, too. Mebby I go out and
bring in a couple such chickens for you to look at? Yes?"

"No, don't!" said the man impulsively. "Don't do it! It wouldn't be no