"It's nothin' but the bill," replied Silas, in a wheedling whisper.
His dry old face turned red, his smile deepened.
"The bill for what?" demanded Thomas Payne, and he seized the paper.
"For the cherries you eat," replied Silas. "I've always been in the
habit of chargin' more, but I've took off a leetle this time." His
voice had a ring of challenge, his eyes were sharp, while his mouth
smiled.
Thomas Payne scowled over the bill. The other young men peered at it
over his shoulder, and repeated the amount with whistles and
half-laughs of scorn and anger. The girls ejaculated to each other in
whispers. Silas stood impervious, waiting.
The young men whipped out their purses without a word, but Thomas
motioned them back. "I'll pay, and we'll settle afterwards. We can't
divide up here," he said, and he crammed some money hard in Silas's
eagerly outstretched hand. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr.
Berry," said Thomas Payne, his face all flaming and his eyes
flashing, but his voice quite steady. "I hope you'll have as good
luck selling your cherries next year."
There was a little exulting titter over the sarcasm among the girls,
in which Rebecca did not join; then the party kept on. The indignant
clamor waxed loud in a moment; they scarcely waited for the old man's
back to be turned on his return to the tavern.
But the young people, crying out all together against this last
unparalleled meanness, had not reached the foot of the hill, where
some of them separated, when they heard the quick pound of running
feet behind them and a hoarse voice calling on Thomas Payne to stop.
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