“Mars Tom, can’t we tote it back home en sell it?
How long’ll it take?”
“Depends on the way we go.”
“Well, sah, she’s wuth a quarter of a dollar a load
at home, en I reckon we’s got as much as twenty
loads, hain’t we? How much would dat be?”
“Five dollars.”
“By jings, Mars Tom, le’s shove for home right on
de spot! Hit’s more’n a dollar en a half apiece, hain’t
it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, ef dat ain’t makin’ money de easiest ever I
struck! She jes’ rained in — never cos’ us a lick o’
work. Le’s mosey right along, Mars Tom.”
But Tom was thinking and ciphering away so busy
and excited he never heard him. Pretty soon he says:
“Five dollars — sho! Look here, this sand’s worth
— worth — why, it’s worth no end of money.”
“How is dat, Mars Tom? Go on, honey, go on!”
“Well, the minute people knows it’s genuwyne sand
from the genuwyne Desert of Sahara, they’ll just be in
a perfect state of mind to git hold of some of it to
keep on the what-not in a vial with a label on it for a
curiosity. All we got to do is to put it up in vials and
float around all over the United States and peddle them
out at ten cents apiece. We’ve got all of ten thousand
dollars’ worth of sand in this boat.”
Me and Jim went all to pieces with joy, and begun
to shout whoopjamboreehoo, and Tom says:
“And we can keep on coming back and fetching
sand, and coming back and fetching more sand, and
just keep it a-going till we’ve carted this whole Desert
over there and sold it out; and there ain’t ever going
to be any opposition, either, because we’ll take out a
patent.”
“My goodness,” I says, “we’ll be as rich as Creo-
sote, won’t we, Tom?”
“Yes — Creesus, you mean. Why, that dervish was
hunting in that little hill for the treasures of the earth,
and didn’t know he was walking over the real ones for
a thousand miles. He was blinder than he made the
driver.”
“Mars Tom, how much is we gwyne to be worth?”
“Well, I don’t know yet. It’s got to be ciphered,
and it ain’t the easiest job to do, either, because it’s
over four million square miles of sand at ten cents a
vial.”
Jim was awful excited, but this faded it out consider-
able, and he shook his head and says:
“Mars Tom, we can’t ‘ford all dem vials — a king
couldn’t. We better not try to take de whole Desert,
Mars Tom, de vials gwyne to bust us, sho’.”
Tom’s excitement died out, too, now, and I reck-
oned it was on account of the vials, but it wasn’t. He
set there thinking, and got bluer and bluer, and at last
he says:
“Boys, it won’t work; we got to give it up.”
“Why, Tom?”
“On account of the duties.”
I couldn’t make nothing out of that, neither could
Jim. I says:
“What IS our duty, Tom? Because if we can’t git
around it, why can’t we just DO it? People often has
to.”
But he says:
“Oh, it ain’t that kind of duty. The kind I mean
is a tax. Whenever you strike a frontier — that’s the
border of a country, you know — you find a custom-
house there, and the gov’ment officers comes and rum-
mages among your things and charges a big tax, which
they call a duty because it’s their duty to bust you if
they can, and if you don’t pay the duty they’ll hog
your sand. They call it confiscating, but that don’t
deceive nobody, it’s just hogging, and that’s all it is.
Now if we try to carry this sand home the way we’re
pointed now, we got to climb fences till we git tired —
just frontier after frontier — Egypt, Arabia, Hindostan,
and so on, and they’ll all whack on a duty, and so you
see, easy enough, we CAN’T go THAT road.”
“Why, Tom,” I says, “we can sail right over their
old frontiers; how are THEY going to stop us?”