"If I 'd hung out, I might have got ten dollars more," said Skinner loftily.
Honey was silent for a long time.
"Well," said Skinner presently, "what's going on in that little bean of yours?"
"I was just figuring, Dearie. Let's see—ten dollars a week—how much is that a year?"
"Five hundred and twenty dollars."
"Five hundred and twenty dollars a year—that'd be more than a thousand dollars in two years!"
"Yes," Skinner affirmed.
"And in four years? Think of it—over two thousand dollars?"
"Better not count your chickens, Honey,—I'm superstitious, you know."
Skinner began to see his ten-dollar raise growing to gigantic proportions. He had visions of himself at the end of four years hustling to "make good" "over two thousand dollars." For the first time he questioned the wisdom of promoting himself. But he could n't back out now. He almost damned Honey's thrift. He would be piling up a debt which threatened to become an avalanche and swamp him, and for which he would get no equivalent but temporarily increased adulation. How could he nip this awful thing in the bud? He did n't see any way out of it unless it were to throw up his job and cut short this accumulating horror. But at least he had a year of grace—two years, four years, for that matter—before he would have to render an accounting, and who could tell what four years might bring forth? Surely, in that time he'd be able to get out of it somehow.