The throng at the post-office seemed to have no effect on the rest of the down-town, for the streets were as crowded as before with hurrying people, mostly men. New Yorkers, Arkansans, Illinoisans, Britishers, Germans, Frenchmen, Swedes, Mexicans, Malays with long curved knives, the queer Chinamen, and some swarthy persons, in brown ponchos (or cloaks with a hole in the middle for the head), who his father said were Peruvians and Chilians--all these passed hither-thither, only pausing to bargain with each other or at the shops, until Charley's brain whirled at the many odd sights. There were a few women, but none who looked to him anything like his mother. Across the plaza his father espied a new sign, in front of a shop built of boxes. It said: "Potatoes for Sale. Just Received." "That's what we want, Charley," he spoke; and for the place they made. The potatoes were in open sacks, just inside the door--and that was the shop's whole stock of goods. "How much are your potatoes, my man?" asked Mr. Adams. "They look pretty good." "One dollar and a half. Yes, sir; they are good ones; came in only this morning." "Let me have a bushel, then, at a dollar and a half," bade Mr. Adams, with satisfaction. "That's not an unreasonable price, is it, Charley!" "We don't sell by the bushel; I quoted you the price by the pound," explained the potato merchant. "What!" gasped Charley's father, again astounded. "You don't mean a dollar and a half a _pound_?" "You bet," smiled the merchant. "And going like hot cakes at that. I'll not have a potato left, by night." "Come on, Charley," laughed Mr. Adams. "We'll wait and grow our own potatoes." "I'll take all you can grow at your own price," challenged the merchant, after them, as if growing potatoes out here in California was impossible.