“It doesn’t look like it,” agreed Stick plaintively. “Say, we’re going to lose our money as sure as shooting, Rus!”
“I don’t think so,” answered the other with more confidence than he felt. “We can’t lose it all, anyhow, Stick. We haven’t signed any lease and we can give up the place at a month’s notice. We can return most of our stock, too.”
“Yes, but we’ll be out two months’ rent at the very least, and we’ve sunk about a hundred in rent and advertising and dolling the place up. Pulsifer won’t allow us anything for the paint and varnish and work we put in there, I suppose.”
“No, we’re bound to lose something, of course, if we have to quit,” acknowledged Russell. “But I don’t believe we’ll have to, Stick. Something tells me that things are going to pick up pretty soon.”
“I wish something would tell me so,” said Stick mournfully. “I don’t mind saying, Rus, that I’m plaguey sorry I went into it!”
“Well, don’t let’s give up the ship yet,” replied the other patiently. “Toss me that Latin book over here, will you?”
“What I don’t see,” went on Stick, complying, “is what this fellow Austen gets out of it. I suppose he’s—well, square, eh?”
“Of course he is,” answered Russell indignantly.
“Well, don’t get waxy. How do I know? What’s he going to tend the store for without pay, then?”
“He’s not. He’s on salary.”