“Sixty cents!” almost shrieked the woman. “You must be crazy. I never paid more than five cents a quart in all my born days!”
Chub looked inquiringly at Harry.
“What is the price on them, Chub?” she asked.
“It says thirty cents, and two quarts at thirty cents—”
“Thirty cents a peck, you stupid!” said the woman.
“It doesn’t say so,” Chub demurred doubtfully.
“It doesn’t say whether they’re thirty cents a pint or thirty cents a bushel,” answered the customer, acidly, “but onions are always sold by the peck.”
“Well, maybe you’re right,” said Chub. “So if you’ll take a peck we’ll call it thirty cents—”
“I don’t want a peck. Who ever heard of any one buying a whole peck of onions at once?”
“But you just said that they are always sold by the peck, and if that’s so—”
“I meant they were always priced by the peck, and if you had the sense of a goose you’d know something about it!”
“I think she must be right, Chub,” observed
