"He's raking for quahaugs." "Raking for what hogs ?" "Quahaugs.

What you New Yorkers call clams." "Oh! Sell 'em, does he ?" "Yes." "Tell him to call at my house next time you see him.

And for heaven's sake tell him to come to the servants' door.

Don't you people down here have any servants' doors to your houses?
There have been no less than fifty peddlers on my porch since yesterday and my butler will die of apoplexy if it keeps on.

He's a good one, for a wonder, and I don't want to lose him." I made no reply to this observation and he did not seem to expect any.
He watched Zeb rake for a moment and then he turned back to me.
"Can you come over to my house now ?" he asked.
I was not expecting this and again I did not have an answer ready.
"Can you ?" he went on.