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 clerk answered. "I told him no, but that I wanted to improve my position. He went right out. He didn't say much."

That fact had begun to worry Bert. He was used to lengthy scoldings, and the way his father was acting moved him to anxiety. His father had left the table and had walked out of the house, and had then asked Sam a question and had walked out of the store. A storm of words ran itself out, vented its anger and announced its position, and was done. Silence might mean anything.

"There isn't any chance of any mistake in the business, is there?" he asked abruptly. He didn't say whose business he meant, but Sam understood.

"In financial matters," the clerk said wisely, "you check up everything. Figures do not lie. I've gone over the number of subscribers we will get, and the stuff we are sure to sell in the store. We'll surely clear three hundred dollars a month."

Bert divided the sum in his mind. One hundred to him—two hundred to Sam. The thing was a gold mine. And then he sighed. If he expected to have any peace at home he'd have to step out and let the chance go by.

Mr. Quinby returned to the store. There was that in his bearing that said that he had fought out a question with himself and had come to a