"What, a-piece?"
"Yairs."
"Why, God bless my soul, what have "we been thinking about? Five shillings? Are you sure?"
"Yairs, rather."
"What, bear-skins worth that and the paddock here and the lanes and the country over-run with them—full of the damn things—hundreds of them—and we, all this time—all these years—working and slaving and scraping and—and"(he almost shouted), "damn me! what asses we have been, to be sure." (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."
