"Say, Fogg. Are you right in your head? Is your nut screwed on properly? Is this a joke? The ladies are all serene and mean well—but darn it, man! you don't mean to tell me that you believe there's five hundred in this snap?"
"Why, certainly I do, and more."
"Cents."
"No. Please be serious. Dollars."
"Well, let us get down to cases and figure it out. What'll be your expenses?"
"Oh, 'way down. There's $75 for the house, dirt cheap—the ladies have a pull with the landlord; $65 for the orchestra; stage hands, $15; advertising and printing, $60; flowers, $20; costumes, $11.75; sundries, $10. How much is all that?"
"Let me figure it up. Have you a pencil? Never mind, I have one. Well, that, my friend, foots up $256.75."
"Why, that ain't much."
"No. 'Tain't much for a Vanderbilt, but then, the Vans' ancestors put in some lively hustling in days of yore, and the Vans of the present day are now taking solid comfort and shooting folly as it flies out of the result of the old Commodore's hustling on land and water. An' now let me ask you, have you got the dough to go on with this great scheme of yours?"
"Well, no, I haven't got the dough, as you call it, but I have the tickets, and the committee propose to sell them to their numerous friends. I tell you 'tis a dead-sure thing."