“Spillane & Company handle ’em,” says he. “I’ll write ’em a letter.... No, I’ll telegraph ’em. Save time.” He went back to the desk to write a message, but he stopped and thought.
“Price ’d d-depend on how many we was goin’ to use,” says he. “Wonder how many we’d sell?”
“No way of tellin’,” says I.
“There m-must be,” says he in that arguing way of his. “We got to find out.... Say, you fellers go home and ask your mothers and my mother how many they’re goin’ to buy this fall.”
We went off obedient as little sheep. Mark’s mother was going to need two dozen new ones, Binney’s mother figured on three dozen, and Tallow’s mother allowed as how she needed about two dozen and a half.
Mark blinked and pinched his cheek and whistled a little.
“There’s about two hundred h-houses in Wicksville. The population of the township’s about four thousand, so that means about two hundred more farm-houses. That’s figgerin’ five folks to the house for town and country. Looks like the average number of cans was about two d-dozen and a half. But that’s high. Lots of folks don’t set as good a table as your f-folks. But ’most everybody in Wicksville cans some. Let’s guess low. Say a dozen cans to every house. How about that?”
“Too high,” says I.
“Maybe so,” says he; “b-better be safe and figger ’way low. Say eight cans to a house. How many’s that?”
“Thirty-two hundred cans,” says I.