"I cayn't 'low you but ten cents a pound for yore butter," Worthy said
to the man. "Yore women folks never _will_ work the water out, an'
it's al'ays puffy an' white. Town people don't want sech truck. It
has to be firm and yaller. Look what the Beeson gals fetch once a
week. I gladly pay 'em fifteen fer it." He uncovered a pile of firm
golden balls and struck them with his paddle. "Any woman can make sech
butter ef they won't feed the cows cotton-seed an' will take 'nough
trouble."
When the man had joined the group outside, Worthy came from behind the
counter into the pen, wiping his hands on a sheet of brown paper.
"I don't think thar's a thing fer any o' yore folks, Miss Hettie," he
said to the girl, "but I'll look jest to satisfy you." He took a
bundle of letters from a pigeon-hole and ran them hurriedly through his
hands. "Not a thing," he concluded, putting the letters back; "jest as
I thought."
She paused for a moment as if about to ask a question. She put a thin
hand on the cover of a sugar-barrel, and looked at him timidly from the
depths of her bonnet as he came out of the pen, but she said nothing.
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