“Gee!” gasped Tom. “How’d we do it?”
“It’s all here, day by day. Let’s see. On station trips we made exactly a hundred and twelve dollars. We took in sixty-five dollars on evening—er—rentals and ten dollars and seventy-five cents the day of the picnic. Total, one hundred, eighty-seven, seventy-five!”
“Great Scott! Why, that’s—that’s over two thousand dollars a year! Are you sure you’ve got it right, Will?”
“Look for yourself,” said Willard offendedly. Tom dropped from the windowsill and followed Willard’s finger as it passed down the pages, pausing at totals and pointing out “Forwards.”
“Seems all right,” murmured Tom. “Say, we’ve been doing some business lately, haven’t we?”
“You bet. Look at this day, August eighth; nine dollars and twenty-five cents from station work and six dollars from an evening party; total, fifteen dollars and twenty-five cents! That’s the best day of all, although the picnic day came pretty close; thirteen-fifty. We didn’t do much station work that day.”
Tom whistled softly and sank into a chair. “A hundred and eighty-seven!” he muttered. Then, his voice dropping: “I suppose, though, we’ve had to spend a lot of that,” he said questioningly.
“Ye-es, a good deal. Gasoline costs such a lot, Tom. Wish we could get along without it! Here’s what we’ve disbursed.”
“Dis—what?” asked Tom.
“Spent, you idiot! Gasoline, seventeen dollars and thirty cents——”