“Half a million a day! why that is only at the rate of $187,000,000 per annum; a mere trifle, Spike, that is scarce worth mentioning among us mariners.”
“It's so in the newspapers, I can swear, lieutenant.”
“Ay, ay, and the newspapers will swear to it, too, and they that gave the newspapers their cue. But no matter, our business is with this flour. Will you sell us a barrel or two for our mess? I heard the caterer say we should want flour in the course of a week or so.”
Spike seemed embarrassed, though not to a degree to awaken suspicion in his companion.
“I never sold cargo at sea, long as I've sailed and owned a craft,” he answered, as if uncertain what to do. “If you'll pay the price I expect to get in the Gulf, and will take ten barrels, I do n't know but we may make a trade on't. I shall only ask expected prices.”
“Which will be—?”
“Ten dollars a barrel. For one hundred silver dollars I will put into your boat ten barrels of the very best brand known in the western country.”
“This is dealing rather more extensively than I anticipated, but we will reflect on it.”
Wallance now indolently arose and ascended to the quarter-deck, followed by Spike, who continued to press the flour on him, as if anxious to make money. But the lieutenant hesitated about paying a price as high as ten dollars, or to take a quantity as large as ten barrels.
“Our mess is no great matter after all,” he said carelessly. “Four lieutenants, the purser, two doctors, the master, and a marine officer, and you get us all. Nine men could never eat ten barrels of flour, my dear Spike, you will see for yourself, with the quantity of excellent bread we carry. You forget the bread.”