“Nobody in Wicksville can git one, nor nobody on this branch, seems like. Somethin’s happened somewheres and there hain’t no cars, and if there was we couldn’t have any, because the railroad has let on to the agent here that he dassen’t accept any shipments to the city. He said it was an embargo.”
“Embargo,” says Mark, “I wonder what one of them is?”
“Why,” says Tallow, “an embargo means when the railroad won’t let you ship to a place or from a place or somethin’ like that.”
“How long is it goin’ to l-last?”
“Maybe a week, maybe a month, maybe all the year,” says Tallow. “There hain’t enough cars to go around, and the railroad yards in the city is crowded with cars that they can’t git men to unload, and that kind of thing.”
“Hum!” says Mark. “Perty kettle of fish. Embargo. How in tunket be we g-g-goin’ to send out stuff, then, I’d like to know?”
“We hain’t goin’ to,” says Tallow.
“But we g-got to. We jest got to.”
“They won’t let us.”
“There must be some kind of a way. We got to ship as f-f-fast as we manufacture, and get the money back, or we can’t pay the men and keep goin’. If we was held back from shippin’ for two weeks we would be b-busted.”