Tea in bright green canisters,
and comfits in tumblers--Miss Matty and I felt quite proud as we
looked round us on the evening before the shop was to be opened.
Martha had scoured the boarded floor to a white cleanness, and it
was adorned with a brilliant piece of oil-cloth, on which customers
were to stand before the table-counter. The wholesome smell of
plaster and whitewash pervaded the apartment. A very small
"Matilda Jenkyns, licensed to sell tea," was hidden under the
lintel of the new door, and two boxes of tea, with cabalistic
inscriptions all over them, stood ready to disgorge their contents
into the canisters.
Miss Matty, as I ought to have mentioned before, had had some
scruples of conscience at selling tea when there was already Mr
Johnson in the town, who included it among his numerous
commodities; and, before she could quite reconcile herself to the
adoption of her new business, she had trotted down to his shop,
unknown to me, to tell him of the project that was entertained, and
to inquire if it was likely to injure his business. My father
called this idea of hers "great nonsense," and "wondered how
tradespeople were to get on if there was to be a continual
consulting of each other's interests, which would put a stop to all
competition directly.
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