Old Butch was staring now. For this “wear and tear” business, as applied to his mule, was a new wrinkle to him.
“I swan!” he exploded. “What do you want me to do, tie a flatiron to my mule’s tail so he kain’t shake it?”
“The point is,” Poppy galloped along, “that you can turn Jerusalem out to pasture if you work for us, and nature’s grass will foot the wear and tear bill. Then all you make will be profit.”
“I swan!” came again.
“The most we can afford to pay you,” says Poppy, getting down to brass tacks, “is three-fifty a day. Nor would we want to pay you any less, for we’re going to keep you on the jump.”
As I have written down, Butch’s jobs, both towing and house moving, are kind of few and far between. So he hadn’t any thought of turning us down.
“Um... Three-fifty a day, you say.”
“Exactly.”
“Meanin’ three dollars an’ fifty cents?”
Poppy nodded.