“I am afraid I can’t make quite ten dollars, aint you? Now ten pounds of butter, at thirteen cents a pound, that makes—let me see.”
“A dollar and thirty cents,” said the fisher-boy.
“O, I can’t sell that good butter for such a small price as that,” whined Tom. “That farmer swindled me, didn’t he? He said that butter was the best in the country. And now, fifteen dozen eggs, at ten cents a dozen, that makes—just—”
“A dollar and a half,” said Bob.
“And that makes the butter and eggs worth—worth—”
“Two dollars and eighty cents,” said the fisher-boy, who knew that he was expected to do all the calculating; “and you paid six dollars and ninety cents for your cargo, taking out the price of your game chickens. So you lose just four dollars and ten cents.”
“O, that’s too much!” said Tom. “If I was to lose that every day, that would be—let me see—how much a week?”
“Almost twenty-five dollars,” said Bob.
“That’s too much!” exclaimed Tom, again. “I can’t afford to lose that. I’ll keep my things until prices rise again. Bob, put the cargo into your wagon, and take it up to the house. I knew I couldn’t be a speculator. I’m the most unlucky boy in the whole world, and something’s always happening to bother me.”