“That’s the sort of fellow you are, Bill Stout!” exclaimed Bark indignantly.—“No matter, Mr. Raimundo; if Bill is too mean to pay his share, I will pay it for him. You shall pay no more than one-third anyhow.”
“I am willing to pay my fair share,” said Bill, more disturbed than ever to find Bark against him every time. “Then three dollars for that lunch was a swindle.”
“I had to take what I could get under the circumstances,” added Raimundo; “but you drank most of the wine.”
“I was not consulted about ordering it,” growled Bill.
“If there ever was an unreasonable fellow on the face of the footstool, you are the one, Bill Stout!” retorted Bark vigorously. “I have had enough of you.—How much is the whole bill for each, Mr. Raimundo?”
“An equal division makes it two hundred and seventy-eight reales and a fraction. That is thirteen dollars and sixty cents.”
“But my money is in sovereigns.”
“Two and a half pence make a real. Can you figure that in your head?”
Bark declined to do the sum in his head; but, standing up under the dim light in the top of the compartment, he ciphered it out on the back of an old letter. The train had been in motion for some time, and it was not easy to make figures; but at last he announced his result.
“Two pounds and eighteen shillings, lacking a penny,” said he. “Two shares will be five pounds and sixteen shillings.”