"I reckon I couldn't drive a trade with you to-day, squire?" said a genuine specimen of a Yankee pedler, as he stood at the door of a certain merchant in St. Louis.
"I reckon you calculate about right, for you can't," was the sneering reply.
"Wall, I guess you needn't get huffy 'bout it. Now here's a dozen ginooine razer strops—worth two dollars and a half; you may have 'em for two dollars."
"I tell you I don't want any of your strops—so you may as well be going along."
"Wall, now, look here, squire, I'll bet you five dollars, that if you make me an offer for them 'ere strops, we'll have a trade yet!"
"Done!" replied the merchant, placing the money in the hands of a bystander. The Yankee deposited a like sum.
"Now," said the merchant, "I'll give you a picayune for the strops."
"They're yourn," said the Yankee, as he quietly pocketed the stakes.
"But," said he, after a little reflection, and with great apparent honesty, "I'll trade back."
The merchant's countenance brightened.
"You are not so bad a chap, after all," said he. "Here are your strops—give me the money."
"There it is," said the Yankee, as he received the strops and passed over the sixpence. "A trade is a trade; and, now you are wide awake, the next time you trade with that 'ere sixpence you'll do a little better than buy razer strops."
And away walked the pedler with his strops and his wager, amidst the shouts of the laughing crowd.
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