“Go to it;––be philosophic! Lovely consolation that! A ton and a half of potatoes for five hundred bucks!”
“That’s right, Shadow, dearie,––rub it in.”
Phil did not answer, but sat on Jim’s bed and looked at the carpet in evident disgust.
After a few minutes of silence, Jim grunted, then he began to laugh.
“You seem to be quite pleased with your performance,” commented Phil sarcastically.
“Man,––I was just thinkin’ what a grand thing it would be if only I could make these payments.”
“A fine chance you have––about fifty dollars in the wide world and five days left in which to make two thousand. Nobody in this town will lend you a red cent. They are all too anxious putting their money in a hole in the ground themselves. Of course, you might write forty dime novels at fifty dollars apiece and make it that way:––that means just eight a day for five days.”
Phil got up and clapped Jim on the shoulder. “Guess you’d best forget it, old boy! Let the tail follow the dog.”
“But you must admit, Phil, that the weak spot in this deal of Rattlesnake’s, after all, is right on the question of my ability to raise the dough.”
“Yes!––I admit it––but the real weak point is one he never reckoned on.”