"Oh yes; maybe a half, or tharabouts."
"Well," said Westerfelt, indifferently, "we'll do the best we can."
"Thar's a big un that's no good." Washburn pointed to an account he had just copied.
"Who's it on?"
"Toot Wambush."
"How much?"
"Seventy-eight dollars an' fifty cents. It's been runnin' on fer two yeer, an' thar hain't a single credit on it. He never was knowed to pay a cent to nobody."
"Don't let anything out to him till the account is paid."
Washburn looked up with a dubious smile. "He'll raise a' awful row. He never wants to go anywhar tell he's drinkin', an' then he's as ill as a snake an' will fight at the drop of a hat. Nobody in Cartwright dares to refuse 'im credit."
"I will, if he doesn't pay up."