“Not much,” said I.
“I want a good boy to drive team,” said he. “Suppose you could learn.” And then he began to talk to the horses, and to whistle.
“How much would you pay?” said I.
“I’d give a good smart boy ten dollars a month and board,” said he. “Git ap, Doc!”
“How much of that could he save?” said I.
“Save eight dollars a month easy enough, if he’s careful of his clothes, and don’t want to go to every circus that comes along,” said he.
I made a mental calculation: “Eight times twelve are ninety-six—into a hundred thousand—one thousand and forty-one years, and some months. O, yes! interest—well, nearly a thousand years.” Then I said aloud, “I guess I won’t hire; don’t believe I’d make a very good teamster.”
“I think you would; and it’s good wages,” said he.
“Nobody but Methuselah could get rich at it,” said I.
“Rich?” said he. “Of course you couldn’t get rich teaming. If that’s what you’re after, I’ll tell you what you do: plant a forest. Timber’s good property. The price of it’s more than doubled in ten years past, and it’ll be higher yet. You plant a tree, and it’ll grow while you sleep. Chess won’t choke it, and the weevil can’t eat it. You don’t have to hoe it, nor mow it, nor pick it, nor rotate it, nor feed it, nor churn it, nor nothing. That’s the beauty of it. And you plant a forest of trees, and in time it’ll make you a rich man.”