'Mr Rollin!' I said.
Yes siree,' said he, pausing in the midst of his chorus to look up at
me.
'Where can I get a piece of yellow pine?'
'See 'n a minute,' he said. Then he continued his sawing and his
song, ' "Says I Dan Skinner, I thank yer mighty mean" - what d'
ye want it fer?' he asked stopping abruptly.
'Going to make a ruler,' I answered.
'"T' sen' me up the river with a seven dollar team,"' he went on,
picking out a piece of smooth planed lumber, and handing it to me.
'How much is it worth?' I enquired.
He whistled a moment as he surveyed it carefully.
''Bout one cent,' he answered seriously.
I handed him the money and sat down awhile to watch him as he
went on with his work. It was the cheapest amusement I have yet
enjoyed. Indeed Sol Rollin became a dissipation, a subtle and
seductive habit that grew upon me and on one pretext or another I
went every Saturday to the shop if I had not gone home.
'What ye goin' t' be?'
He stopped his saw, and looked at me, waiting for my answer.
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