"Well, now, well, now," said Solomon, taking the knife in his hand and pretending to examine it closely. "That's a pretty knife, to be sure,--to--be--sure. Real showy, ain't it? Looks as if 't was made to sell--all outside and no money in the bank, like some young fellers ye see." Dannie Snow giggling outright, Mr. Peaslee turned and gazed at him in mild inquiry. Young Potter turned a dull red. He was addicted to radiant cravats and gauzy silk handkerchiefs, and from his "salary" of eight dollars a week he did not save much. But just the same, Mr. Peaslee had been staggered at the price. Pretending still to examine the knife which Willie had given him, he squinted past it at the contents of the glass show-case on which his elbows rested. There all sorts of knives confronted him, each in its little box, in which was stuck a card stating the price,--$1.50, $1.25, 90c, 45c. The cheapest one would eat up the proceeds of three dozen eggs at fifteen cents a dozen--a good price for eggs! He had forgotten that knives cost so much. "A good knife ain't any use to a boy," he reflected. "Break it in a day, lose it in a week. 'T wouldn't be any real kindness to him. Just wastin' money." He pointed finally to a stubby, wooden-handled knife with one big blade, marked 25c. "There, now," said he, "that's what I call a knife. Good and strong, and no folderol. Guarantee the steel, don't ye?" He opened the blade and drew it speculatively across his calloused old thumb, while with his mild blue eyes, which his spectacles enormously exaggerated, he fixed the humbled Willie. "That's a good knife for the money," said that young man. "Hand-forged." "Sho now, ye don't say so," said Mr. Peaslee. "I guess ye give a discount, don't ye? Farley always allows me a little suthin'." "You can have it for twenty-one cents," said Willie, much irritated. "Charge it?" "Guess I better pay cash," Mr. Peaslee answered hastily. If it were charged, his wife would question the item. Producing an enormous wallet--very worn and very flat--from his cavernous pocket, he deliberately searched until he found a Canadian ten-cent piece, and adding to it enough to make up the price, handed it to Potter, and left the store. Mr. Peaslee, who remembered no gift from his father other than a very occasional big copper cent, thought himself pretty generous. Had he not spent pretty nearly the price of two dozen eggs? But now a question occurred to him which he had not thought of before. How was he to get the knife to Jim? A gift from him would excite surprise, perhaps suspicion. It must not be known who had sent it. Ah, there was the post office! Going in, he pushed the little box through the barred window. "Say, Cyrus," he said to the postmaster, "kinder weigh up this consignment for me, will ye?" The postmaster weighed the box. "That will cost you six cents," he said.