It's too cheap. I ought to have made it twenty dollars."
"Why, Mr. Persimmon, the postmaster here, engaged the hall for five
dollars. Here is his letter mentioning the price." Tiffles produced the
letter, and pointed out the numeral in question.
"It's a 5, without any doubt," rejoined Mr. Boolpin; "but Persimmon had
no authority to name that price. I distinctly told him fifteen dollars.
But here he is. Perhaps he can explain it."
The three turned on their heels, and beheld, standing at the door, a
short, dirty man in a faded suit of black, and a cold-shining satin
vest. He wore an old hat set well back on a bald head, and his cravat
was tied on one side in hangman's fashion. One leg of his trowsers was
tucked into the top of his boot; the other hung down in its proper
position. The man's face and hands wanted washing. This was Mr.
Persimmon, postmaster. The secrets of his popularity were: First, his
addiction to dirt; second, his eccentricities of dress, heretofore
enumerated; third, a reputation for political craft and long-headedness,
not wholly unfounded, as his ingenuity in procuring the passage of
resolutions supporting the policy of the Administration, in all the
conventions of his party since he became postmaster, fully proved.
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