“How much?” came in a prompt chorus.
“Only four hundred and ninety dollars,” answered Art emphasizing the “only.”
“Only!” repeated Alex Conyers raising his arms. “Only! Why don’t you say ‘only a million’? Where’d this gang ever raise four hundred and ninety dollars?”
“That ain’t fifty dollars apiece,” argued Art.
“Have you fifty dollars?” retorted Alex.
“I have—a hundred and twelve dollars—right now—in the bank.”
“An’ you couldn’t get a cent of it lessen your pa said so. I see your father lettin’ you have it—like fun.”
“How much’d the other fixin’s cost?” broke in Wart Ware. “But I ain’t got no fifty dollars. I had fifteen dollars, though, last Christmas,” he went on. “But I spent it,” he was forced to add regretfully.
“There ain’t anything else that’d cost much,” began Art anew. “Some pieces of spruce, an’ some cheap silk, an’ some varnish, an’ some piano wire, an’ turnbuckles—”
“How about a couple o’ propellers?” asked pessimistic Alex. “They don’t give ’em away I reckon and most flyin’ machines have ’em.”