“Haven’t we?” asked Tom anxiously.
Willard shook his head. “We’ve only got a hundred and ten, ninety-eight. We’re seventy-five cents shy, Tom. I’m sorry. I’ve put away every cent and kept strict account, but——”
“Shucks, what does seventy-five cents matter when we’ve got all that money? And—and maybe you made a mistake in your figuring.”
“Maybe I didn’t!” exclaimed Willard indignantly. “More likely you forgot to hand some money over some time, Tom.”
“I might have,” mused the other. Then, triumphantly: “I’ll tell you where your seventy-five is!” he cried. “Remember the chap who went away without paying Mr. Duff for his two sample-cases and bag?”
“Of course! I forgot that. I suppose that ought to go down to profit and loss.”
“Loss, I’d say. Although we’ll get it out of him the next time he comes to town. I remember him, all right. He had red hair and freckles and wore a pink shirt. Looked like—like a sunset, he did.”
“Hope he doesn’t change his shirt,” laughed Willard, as he corrected his account. “We might not recognize him.”
“I’d know him as long as he didn’t dye his hair! Well, what are we going to do with all that money, Will? I suppose we’d better pay back some of what we borrowed, hadn’t we?”
“I should think so. Suppose we pay your father his fifty and I’ll take twenty-five.”