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Updated: May 22, 2025
The diamond notch on the handle, the brother who was sick of the fever, the alleged non-title of Mac-an-Ward, the interposition of the woman, the cans with the handles which fall out, and the cans with the handles which do not fall out, the equity of selling that which does not belong to you all these things chased each other across Festus Clasby's mind.
"Well, my good man?" queried Festus Clasby, a phrase usually addressed across his counter, his hands outspread, to longstanding customers. "The last of a rare lot," said Mac-an-Ward, deftly poising the tin can on the top of his fingers, so that it stood level with Festus Clasby's great face. Festus Clasby took this as a business proposition, and the soul of the trader revolved within him.
Not once in a lifetime was that casket tarnished; the nearest he ever went to it was when he bought up very cheaply, as was his custom a broken man's insurance policy a day after the law made such a practice illegal. There was no haggling at Festus Clasby's counter.
It was only when Festus Clasby had supplied the materials for their wakes that the great pencil, with one mighty stroke of terrible finality, ran like a sword through their names, wiping their very memories from the hillsides. All purchases were entered up in Festus Clasby's mighty record without vulgar discussions as to price.
The Son of the Bard stood silent by the cart, looking away down the road with a pensive look on his long, narrow face. "Pay me the one-and-six to put into the hands of my brother," the woman said. Festus Clasby's mind was brought back at once to his pocket. "No," he said, "but this man can give you my money to pay into the hand of your brother."
As to security, if Festus Clasby's customers had not a great deal of money they had grass which grew every year, and the beasts which Festus Clasby fattened and sold at the fairs had sometimes to eat his debtors out of his book.
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