"It is pretty hard work."
"I don't care for that. Don't you believe I could do something in this line?"
"I don't know; perhaps you could."
"Why not, as well as you?"
This was a hard question; and, as Bobby did not wish to be uncivil, he talked about a big pout he hauled in at that moment, instead of answering it. He was politic, and deprecated the anger of the bully; so, though Tom plied him pretty hard, he did not receive much satisfaction.
"You see, Tom," said he, when he found that his companion insisted upon knowing the cost of the books, "this is a publisher's secret; and I dare say they would not wish every one to know the cost of books. We sell them for a dollar apiece."
"Humph! You needn't be so close about it. I'll bet I can find out."
"I have no doubt you can; only, you see, I don't want to tell what I am not sure they would be willing I should tell."
Tom took a slate pencil from his pocket, and commenced ciphering on the smooth rock upon which he sat.
"You say you sold fifty books?"