Customers!--no such customers had been known in the old borough from time immemorial.

The tradesman as he speaks involuntarily pulls out his till, glances in, and shuts it up with a satisfied bang.

The old style of farmer, solid and substantial enough, fumbling at the bottom of his canvas bag for silver and gold, was a crusty curmudgeon where silk and satin, kid gloves, and so forth were concerned.
His wife had to look sharp after her poultry, geese and turkeys, and such similar perquisites, in order to indulge in any innocent vanity, notwithstanding that the rent was paid and a heavy balance at the bank.
Then he would have such a length of credit--a year at least--and nowadays a shopkeeper, though sure of his money, cannot wait long for it.

But to ask for the account was to give mortal offence.

The bill would be paid with the remark, intended to be intensely sarcastic, 'Suppose you thought we was a-going to run away--eh ?' and the door would never again be darkened by those antique breeches and gaiters.