between grew dismal. At eight o'clock the tide of trade was at its height. By nine o'clock it had dwindled perceptibly. Half an hour later some of the stores began to turn out rear lights.
"Might as well call it a day," said Sam.
They counted the receipts—ten dollars and five cents—and entered the amount in a ledger. Probably not more than three dollars of it was profit. And against that meager sum stood rent, light, telephone, the cost of the newspapers and magazines that they would have to buy. Bert felt a stab of discouragement that sickened him. It was Sam who locked the door.
"We've got to find a way to get more interest into this," he said. It was his first confession of failure. "I'll think about it over Sunday. If every business that didn't make a ten-strike right at the start gave up there wouldn't be any business at all."
Bert walked toward home alone. Before he had gone half a block he was conscious of short, quick footsteps in his rear, the wheeze of an asthmatic breathing and a panting call of his name.
"Mr. Quinby! Just a moment, if you please, Mr. Quinby."
It was Old Man Clud, sweating profusely, his coat buttoned tight to his fat, colorless throat though the night was hot. Bert waited.
"So you have gone in business, my young friend.
