work from the big stables of Corberly and Morrison in West
Oakland. House-hunting in the other end of town ceased, and on
Pine Street, between Fifth and Fourth, and in immediate proximity
to the great Southern Pacific railroad yards, Billy and Saxon
rented a neat cottage of four small rooms for ten dollars a
month.

"Dog-cheap is what I call it, when I think of the small rooms
I've ben soaked for," was Billy's judgment. "Look at the one I
got now, not as big as the smallest here, an' me payin' six
dollars a month for it."

"But it's furnished," Saxon reminded him. "You see, that makes a
difference."

But Billy didn't see.

"I ain't much of a scholar, Saxon, but I know simple arithmetic;
I've soaked my watch when I was hard up, and I can calculate
interest. How much do you figure it will cost to furnish the
house, carpets on the floor, linoleum on the kitchen, and all?"

"We can do it nicely for three hundred dollars," she answered.
"I've been thinking it over and I'm sure we can do it for that."

"Three hundred," he muttered, wrinkling his brows with
concentration. "Three hundred, say at six per cent.--that'd be
six cents on the dollar, sixty cents on ten dollars, six dollars
on the hundred, on three hundred eighteen dollars. Say--I'm a
bear at multiplyin' by ten. Now divide eighteen by twelve, that'd