" (Dave stared at him.) "Bear-skins FIVE SHILLINGS each, and----"
"That's all right enough," Dave interrupted, "but----"
"Of COURSE it's all right enough NOW," Dad yelled, "now when we see it."
"But look!" and Dave sat up and assumed an arbitrary attitude. He was
growing suspicious of Dad's ideas. "To begin with, how many bears do you
reckon on getting in a day?"
"In a day"--reflectively--"twenty at the least."
"Twenty. Well, say we only got HALF that, how much d' y' make?"
" MAKE?" (considering). "Two pounds ten a day...fifteen or twenty pounds
a week...yes, TWENTY POUNDS, reckoning at THAT even. And do you mean to
tell ME that we would n't get more than TEN bears a day? Why we'd get
more than that in the lane--get more up ONE tree."
Dave grinned.
"Can't you SEE? DAMN it, boy, are you so DENSE?"
Dave saw. He became enthusiastic. He wondered why it had never struck us
before. Then Dad smiled, and we sat to supper and talked about bears.
"We'll not bother with that horse NOW," said Dad; "the ploughing can go;
I'm DONE with it. We've had enough poking and puddling about. We'll
start this business straightaway." And the following morning, headed by
the dog and Dad, armed with a tomahawk, we started up the paddock.
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