Hereditary Complaints
by
Meanness is as natural to some people, as gutta percha beefsteaks in a cheap boarding-house. Schoodlefaker says he saw a striking instance in Quincy market last Saturday. An Irish woman came up to a turkey merchant, and says she–
“What wud yees be after axin’ for nor a chicken like that?”
“That’s a turkey, not a chicken,” says the merchant.
“Turkey? Be dad an’ it’s a mighty small turkey–it’s stale enough, too, I’d be sworn; poor it is, too! What’d yees ax for ‘un?”
“Well, seein’ it’s pooty nigh night, and the last I’ve got, I’ll let you have it for two and six.”
“Two and six? Hoot! I’d give yees half a dollar fur it, and be dad not another cint.”
“Well,” says the satisfied poultry merchant, “take it along; I won’t dicker for a cent or two.”
Mrs. Doolygan paid over the half, boned the turkey, and went on her way quite elated with the brilliancy of her talents in financiering! There’s one merit in meanness, if it disgusts the looker-on, it never fails to carry a pleasing sensation to the bosom of the gamester.