"What!" says I, "are these the stores where the traders in Huckler's Row
keep?"

And says he, "Yes."

"Well, then," says I to myself, "I have a pesky good mind to go in and
have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my
eye-teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they
can do what there ain't a man in our place can do; and I should just
like to know what sort of stuff these 'ere Portland chaps are made of."
So I goes into the best-looking store among 'em. And I see some biscuit
on the shelf, and says I,--

"Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them 'ere biscuits?"

"A cent apiece," says he.

"Well," says I, "I shan't give you that, but, if you've a mind to, I'll
give you two cents for three of them, for I begin to feel a little as
though I would like to take a bite."

"Well," says he, "I wouldn't sell 'em to anybody else so, but, seeing
it's you, I don't care if you take 'em."

I knew he lied, for he never seen me before in his life. Well, he handed
down the biscuits, and I took 'em and walked round the store awhile, to
see what else he had to sell. At last says I,--

"Mister, have you got any good cider?"