“So,” says I, “even if we have the best kind of luck, which hain’t likely, it’ll be a month before any money comes in—and maybe more, because everybody won’t pay up prompt.”
“Yes,” says he.
“So,” says I, “we’ve got a month, anyhow, and we’ve got to pay the men, and pay our bills and everythin’, and no money comin’ in.”
“That’s the f-f-fix,” says he.
“And we hain’t got an order,” says I.
“I just sent out my f-figgers to some of our customers.”
“They’ll be mad,” says I, “because they been used to buyin’ at Silas Doolittle’s prices, and now you’ve gone and raised ’em.”
“You bet I have,” says he.
“What if you don’t git any orders?”
“Then we’re b-busted,” says he.